


Behind Closet Doors

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: A Gentleman's Armoire [1]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Blackmail, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossdressing, F/F, F/M, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mentions of Racism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Content, betreyal, bootlegger!merlin, but also theres a separate trans character, discussions of consent, implied eggsy/tequila/ginger at the very end, it gets pretty angsty for a while but its a happy ending i promise, writer!harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-11 23:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 105,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15327261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Harry Hart is quite happy with his life. The war is over, the twenties are in full swing, and so long as he keeps his sexuality a secret, he can continue to write his books in peace. That changes when Ian "Merlin" Grey, a confident, more-or-less out business man who, as it turns out, also happens to be a bootlegger, walks into his life. Ian turns Harry's world on its head in more ways than one; reigniting Harry's suppressed passion for wearing women's clothes, drawing him into a world of mystery and danger where inhibitions mean little, and blending their social circles together as their lives become more and more entwined. But Harry's falling for Ian comes with a complicated price: Ian's bootlegging business is under attack from Poppy, a woman who wants it all, and Harry will have to choose between betraying his lover to keep his sexuality a secret or coming clean and risking it all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to MHMoony, who is absolutely amazing and who betaed this monster of a fic. It would not be half the story it is without you. Also, thank you to everyone who encouraged me and cheered me on when writing this; you're all stars. 
> 
> And, of course, thank you to [futuredescending](http://futuredescending.tumblr.com), who did the incredible [artwork](https://futuredescending.tumblr.com/post/176093072888/i-had-the-great-pleasure-of-making-some-arts-for) (and who may or may not have made me cry with how beautiful it is). Go show her some love.
> 
> This started out as a tiny au and grew into something much bigger. For six months, I poured my heart and soul into it, and I hope you love it as much as I do.

[](https://i.imgur.com/jeLuCxf.jpg)

 

“No, no, no!” Harry shoves away from his desk, standing up and kicking his chair in frustration. It falls over, and Harry hisses in pain, clutching at his foot, “Shit.”

He glares momentarily at the pages resting innocently on his desk, then sighs. “Oh Eliza. Whatever am I going to do with you?” Thankfully, neither the pages nor Eliza answer him. He’s not that sort of writer. Not yet, anyway, although given the way his protagonist has been fighting him at every excruciating pen-stroke of this story - little of it that he has - he suspects he may be approaching it faster than he is entirely comfortable with. Sometimes he wonders if it’s odd that his characters seem to have a life of their own, but the few other writers he’s spoken to about it have all assured him that’s it’s fairly standard, which makes him feel better about it, even if it can be incredibly frustrating.

“I need a break,” he says to the air. Maybe if he nips outside for a bit, things will fall into place. It’s helped him before, and at the very least it will give him a respite from the pounding headache his heroine’s antics have been drilling into his head.

He locks the door to his flat behind him, checking that the spare key is still hidden where it belongs and putting his own into his pocket before he strolls down the stairs and out onto the pavement, waving to Roxy as she passes. Her long hair is tucked up under that ratty newsboy cap she’s been wearing forever, even though Harry, James, and Alistair have all offered to buy her a new one that isn’t falling apart. She insists she doesn’t need a new one and that, “besides, this one matches my overalls,” meaning that they are equally tattered and barely clinging to life. Apparently, they are perfect garb for hauling crates around, although Harry isn’t sure he believes that.

She grins at him and waves back. “Writer’s block again, Mr. Hart?”

The formality makes him bite back a smile, which in turn makes her smirk. “Perpetually, my dear,” he says. “Off to the docks?”

“Uncle’s got an old friend coming in on the ships today. I’m to meet him.”

“Dressed like that?”

“I’m to meet him after work.”

Harry smiles and gives her his familiar, teasing line, “A young woman like you, working the docks? What is this world coming to?”

“Great things, I should think,” Roxy shoots back.

“With you in the lead, I imagine that’s true. Now off you pop.”

“See you around, Harry.” She waves one last time before heading towards the water. Harry watches her go for a minute. Roxy is a bright girl and, Harry admits, a large reason why he supported the suffragette movement in the first place (it wasn’t just to spite his mother and her outdated ways, after all). She probably has a more stable head on her shoulders than Harry does, and he trusts her completely. It doesn’t hurt that her uncle, Alistair, is Harry’s closest friend from school, and raised Roxy practically from childhood, teaching her everything he knew and providing her with the means to find out more beyond him. As such, she’s very well educated in both practical and hypothetical terms. Harry likes to come to her for help when he needs a particularly obscure piece of trivia for his writing and doesn’t feel like doing the research himself.

He turns away from the water and winds his way into the city. It’s a nice day, hardly any cars on the road. A few black cabs meander along, but most people are walking, enjoying the crisp, fall air. It’s not late enough in the year to turn truly cold yet, so Harry doesn’t even need a scarf or gloves. He strides neatly around a couple, the young woman laughing as she clings to the man’s arm, bunching up his suit. A harried mother chases a gleefully shrieking child past him. A pair of elderly gentlemen swap pages of the newspaper on a nearby bench. There’s so much life flooding the streets, but it all feels a step removed from Harry.

A few blocks down, he passes the bookseller’s, waving at Amelia through the window. She straightens up, blushing at being caught half-asleep, but Harry can’t blame her. No one wants to be indoors on a day like today.

He pops his head in, the bell dinging as the door swings open. “Slow day?”

“The slowest. Have you seen Roxy?”

Harry slips into the shop. It’s a bit cooler in here, the air more stale without the breeze, and it smells, as always, like old books and Amelia’s floral perfume. “Caught her on her way to the docks. Not sure when she’ll be back; she said Alistair has her meeting a friend of his?”

Amelia nods. “She mentioned something about that when she stopped by last night.” Roxy and Amelia are close, Harry knows. This bookstore, Miller’s Treasures, is where Roxy gets all her books when she latches onto a new concept and needs to learn everything there is to know about it, and that much contact has a tendency to make for fast friends. Amelia is German by heritage, but her family has lived in England since before the turn of the century, and as such she doesn’t even sport an accent. Still, there’s some lingering hostility, people who aren’t quite willing to let the war go yet, and so Amelia’s friends are few and far between. Harry’s glad that the two young women found each other. Like two peas in a pod, they are, starving for knowledge.

“Did she mention who it was?” Harry asks curiously. “She just said ‘old friend’ of Alistair’s. From school? Anyone I might know?”

Amelia shrugs. “She wouldn’t say. Might not know. Don’t think he’s from Oxford, though. I got the impression he was coming from across the pond.”

“American?”

Another shrug. “You’d have to ask Mr. Morton.” She props her chin on her elbows. “You in here for a book today? We’ve just got that new volume on butterflies in.”

Regretfully, because he actually had been interested but he doesn’t want to be bothered with carrying it, he says, “No, just small talk, I’m afraid. I’m out for a bit of a stroll.”

“Writer’s block?”

He laughs. “I do leave the house on my own, you know. Not just when the novel is getting me down.”

“Hmm, not usually,” Amelia says with a smile. “You should get out more. You lock yourself away too much.”

“I’ll take it under advisement, and I’ll be back for that book soon,” Harry tells her. “Have a lovely day.”

“And you, Mr. Hart.”

It says a lot about Harry, he thinks as he steps back onto the pavement, that of the handful of people he feels comfortable calling his friends, about half of them are a solid ten years younger than him, or more. Of the rest, only two are his age. The first, Alistair, he knew in school from even before the war. He’s quiet, down-to-earth, and has a solid head for business, as well as everything else. The other is James.

James is...a character. Harry isn’t sure how else to describe him, except that he thinks the man would have gotten on well with Oscar Wilde, had he not died before they had an opportunity to meet. James lives in the moment more so than anyone Harry has ever met. He’s a flamboyant man with a truly appalling taste in fashion, stopping just shy of being fully camp - although he frequently delights in toeing that line - and it’s a wonder he hasn’t been arrested for public indecency, although Harry supposes Alistair is to thank for that. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship, Harry’s always thought. James keeps Alistair on his toes, in the present and away from the dark past, most notably darkened by his recent service in the war, that drags the more somber man down, and Alistair helps James to rein in his more wild impulses and keep out of trouble.

And it is a relationship. Granted, as far as the outside world is concerned they’re a pair of lifelong bachelors who happen to share a flat (rent in London isn’t cheap, after all, never mind the fact that Alistair could afford not only the entire rent on his flat, but on a much bigger one if he desired), but Harry knows the truth. He’s known the truth about them as a pair since James first turned up, and Alistair as an individual since a bit of experimentation on both their parts at university that ultimately ended with them both deciding that yes, they liked men, but they weren’t especially fond of each other. At least, not in that sense. Still, they’re good friends.

Good enough, anyway, that he’s allowed to drop by their flat unannounced. He heads in that direction now, not wanting to return home just yet and without any other solid destination in mind.

He catches them outside their building, both dressed for a day out - Alistair in a formal, appropriately professional subdued grey suit, and James wearing a maroon suit jacket with thick white stripes over an off-white shirt and trousers, and with a deep blue bowtie half-fastened at his throat - and in a hurry. James is still struggling to knot his tie, and Alistair, although perfectly put together himself, is using his pocket square to wipe away some of the smears of paint that seem to perpetually decorate James’s skin.

James brightens up when he catches sight of Harry, his attempts at righting his bowtie forgotten as he claps Harry on the shoulder. “Harry! I didn’t realize you were coming over today!”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on it,” Harry admits.

Alistair nods in understanding, apparently satisfied that he’s removed as much paint from James’s face and neck as he’s likely to get, because he folds up his pocket square and tucks it back into the breast pocket of his suit where it belongs. “The novel again?” he asks.

“Always,” Harry says. His friends know him well. “I have my protagonist, but she doesn’t seem content to stay in her story. It’s like she finds it too dull.”

Alistair just smiles mildly; he doesn’t fully understand the way Harry views his stories as living, breathing things. James, however, gets it, and his smile is sympathetic. “The plot will come to you. It always does.”

“Eventually,” Harry sighs. He reaches out and fixes James’s bowtie for him when it becomes clear he’s not going to do it himself. “I haven’t interrupted you, have I?” he asks.

“Well, I am in a bit of a hurry,” Alistair admits. “I need to speak with the staff at The Birch Tree. Apparently one of the cooks fell asleep on the job. Again. Given that it’s the third time this has happened, I felt a personal visit might hold more sway than simply firing him and replacing him with a new chef.”

“Alistair doesn’t want to consider that the problem might be with the manager,” James adds cheerfully. “Then he’d have to fire him instead.”

“His wife has a baby on the way,” Alistair says simply, “and regardless, I won’t go jumping to conclusions until I’ve analyzed the situation. But we really do need to get going. I want to get this done before the ship gets in.”

“Of course,” Harry says. “Roxy mentioned you had a friend coming from America.”

Alistair nods. “I haven’t seen him in a few years, but I’m rather looking forward to meeting him again.” At Harry’s curious look, he adds, “He’s no one you would know, I expect.”

“Don’t feel bad,” James tells Harry. “I haven’t even met the man.” He nudges Alistair, “Alright, we’re off, then.” To Harry, he says, “Sorry you caught us at a bad time.”

“No, it’s alright,” Harry says. “My fault for stopping by without notice.”

“You’re always allowed to drop by without notice,” James says. “More fun that way.” He grins and wiggles his fingers in farewell.

Harry smiles and nods, and Alistair does the same, minus the smile. Then he and James make their way down the street, walking just far enough apart to be considered morally decent. Harry watches them go, hands in his pockets, and then turns the other way.

He doesn’t want to return home just yet; his brain is still buzzing uncomfortably, even if it isn’t throbbing from the demanding tantrum Eliza was throwing earlier. He keeps walking, circling the neighbourhood and then stretching out beyond it, never going too far, but lengthening his path until he’s a long way from home and the daylight begins to wane.

Finally, unable to put his thoughts in proper order, he gives it up as a lost cause and heads back to his flat. His feet are sore from walking, but he doesn’t mind. He’s used to it.

Roxy is lounging on the front step when he makes it back. She’s smoking a cigarette, practicing blowing smoke rings that come out wobbly and misshapen. “Good evening, Mr. Hart,” she says, the slightest twist of humour in her words. “Make any headway on that writer’s block?”

“I’m afraid not, Roxy-girl. How was work?”

“Hard.”

“You could always quit,” Harry says, but he’s not serious, and he already knows her answer.

“Not a chance.” She grins at him.

“And Alistair’s friend? You saw him?” He supposes he should have asked Alistair more, but he really hadn’t wanted to keep the man from his work. Asking Roxy now she’s seen him is the next best thing.

She nods. “His ship got in a couple of hours ago. He seemed nice enough. I liked him, anyway. He travels a lot for business, but apparently it's been a long time since he's been to England. At least, that’s what he told me. He had an assistant with him too. A secretary, I guess?” Roxy flushes faintly, just light enough that she could probably pass it off as a reaction to the smoke or the cold air, starting to bite now it’s dark. “She’s rather pretty.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. He knows Roxy’s taste in romantic partners runs the complete opposite of his; that is, Roxy strictly likes women. Still, he doesn’t comment on her apparent crush, and instead asks, “Are they staying with Alistair and James?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Would you want to?”

She makes a fair point, and having grown up there, she would know better than most. James and Alistair share a tiny apartment (“There’s only two of us! No sense wasting money or space.”), and although it has two bedrooms, only one of them is in use. The other was Roxy’s originally, but now has been converted into a guest room/work space for James’s art. You can hardly walk in without tripping over a canvas. Add to that a very affectionate couple, and it’s not an ideal space to spend the night for even one additional person. Two more on top of the couple - literally or otherwise - would be downright claustrophobic.

“Where then?” he asks.

Roxy shrugs, “I think they have a hotel in the area they’re staying in. I don’t know, I left them with Uncle for dinner.” There’s a wistfulness in her voice that clearly tells Harry she wishes she had stayed.

“Thank you, Roxy,” Harry says. He pats her shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting gesture and heads up the stairs. Halfway up, he calls back to her, “And do stop smoking. It smells foul.”

“Smells better than the docks,” she shouts up at him. He’s not sure he agrees, but he doesn’t care enough to get into that debate tonight.

His apartment is just as he left it. The chair is still overturned. His papers are still spread across the desk, some mockingly blank and the rest utter garbage. In the kitchenette, he knows that if he looks in the little refrigerator he will find absolutely nothing edible, but he can’t really be bothered to care about that because he’s not hungry, never is when he gets stuck in a rut like this. The door to his bedroom is ajar, and his unmade bed beckons him to sink down onto the mattress and fall asleep, but he’s not tired either. The only bright spots in the room are his butterfly collection, tucked away in the corners and along the walls where no one will accidentally trip and knock them over. He’s very proud of his collection; some of them he took with him when he left home, others he gradually acquired through careful saving. The allowance his parents give him to stay out of the limelight - not that he particularly wants to be in it, mind - isn’t very large, and lepidoptery is a rather expensive hobby. His writing certainly doesn’t pay for it.

He sighs and rights the chair, settling down and scooting back to his desk. He picks up his pen, licks the tip (nasty habit, he should really stop that), and stares down at the half-filled page. He can salvage this. He can, and he will. Even if it takes all night to do it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for light power imbalance during sex (dom/sub-esque themes). It is discussed and corrected.

Harry nods in thanks to Eggsy when his drink appears in front of him. Kingsman’s newest bartender always pays him a bit of special attention, even when they’re crowded, because Harry’s the one who got him the job in the first place. The young man had tried to pick Harry’s pocket and come up empty, not just because Harry hadn’t actually had any money on him at the time but because he’d caught the boy’s wrist before he’d been able to get away. Rather than take Eggsy to the police, as Harry knows his parents would have done, he got him a job at his favourite bar. The work keeps Eggsy out of trouble, more or less, and it keeps Harry happy because he always gets his drink first. Not that it matters much on an afternoon like this one. Kingsman is almost completely empty, and the few customers occupying the establishment are spaced out around the tables and booths, rather than joining Harry at the bar.

He curls his fingers around the glass and takes a sip, sighing in pleasure. The martinis here are excellent, were even before Eggsy started working, and that is really the main reason Harry comes to Kingsman anyway. That and Kay, the owner, who’s something akin to an old friend, although Harry rarely sees him.

Harry does see why Amelia is concerned; she’s right in saying that he only goes for walks to clear his head when he’s grappling with work (which is happening more and more often lately), or to come down to the bar and drink. At least he rarely drinks to excess; it’s more a way to get out and watch people than it is to drown his sorrows. Not that he has many of those. Even with all his secrets and shames, Harry knows he has it a lot better off than most people. Could have it even better, if he could stand to play the dutiful son and spout his parent’s horrid, backwards rhetoric. The very thought makes him shudder inwardly, but he burned that bridge a long time ago. There’s no use dwelling on it, even if he wanted to go back, which he emphatically does not.

Eggsy props his elbows on the bar and leans over to whisper, “In the back corner, there’s a bloke that’s been staring at you for the past five minutes.”

Harry glances over his shoulder; the corner that Eggsy indicated with a jerk of his head is shrouded by shadows, but he can clearly see a pair of long legs stretched out under the table of the booth, ending in a pair of very expensive-looking shoes. The man’s face is partially obscured by the darkness, but Harry can see the glint of his eyes when he tilts his head, and his cigarette burns red as he takes another drag, blowing the smoke out in a long stream and then crooking the two fingers holding the cigarette in a very clear gesture. _Come here_.

Harry looks around the bar, but there’s no one else the man could be signalling. None of the other patrons are anywhere near Harry, and none of them are looking at the mysterious stranger. So that leaves just the two of them at the bar, and given the mostly-full glass sitting on the table in front of him, Harry gets the feeling he’s not signaling to Eggsy.

Slowly, Harry gets to his feet, making his way across the room. As he gets closer, he gets a better look at the man; he’s bald, but it suits him, makes him look strong and dangerous in a way that is only enhanced by the neat pinstripe suit he’s sporting, complete with waistcoat and tie, and with a green carnation tucked into the buttonhole. It might just be a coincidence, but it makes Harry feel a bit better about approaching a stranger. The man shifts over in the booth, and Harry sits down gingerly on the edge.

The man stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table and offers his hand out for Harry to shake. “Ian Grey.”

Harry takes it. “Harry Hart.”

Ian doesn’t let go of his hand; his grip tightens ever so slightly, and Harry can feel all the tiny bones in his wrist flexing under Ian’s grip. Ian’s voice is a very low, _very_ attractive posh British drawl when he says, “And what is a pretty boy like you doing drinking alone?” His eyes are slightly narrowed, his expression calculated, and Harry gulps and takes a gamble.

“I’m not drinking alone now, am I?” He raises his martini with the hand not currently in Ian’s grip and gestures towards the other man’s own glass. “Whiskey?”

Ian laughs, like Harry’s made a joke. “Scotch.” He pauses, and his voice is careful when he says, “If you want to scarper back over to your friend I wouldn’t mind, but if you wanted to polari…?”

Relief flushes through Harry’s body at the confirmation of his suspicions, and he shakes his head. “No. No, I’m fine here. Uh, bona, I mean.” He blushes, “Sorry, I’m familiar, but I choose not to use the language myself.” He’s acutely aware that Ian is still touching him, and it just makes him flush deeper.

Ian grins at him, giving a tiny nod, as if deeming Harry’s answer acceptable. He releases Harry’s hand and leans back in the booth, fishing a cigarette case and a lighter out of his breast pocket. He offers the former out to Harry. “Want one?”

Harry doesn’t smoke. But there’s something predatory about Ian’s expression, and Harry doesn’t want to end up as prey (or perhaps he does), so he smiles and says, “Why not?”

Ian hands him a cigarette and puts his own between his lips. Harry takes his cue, and they bend their heads together as Ian lights both cigarettes at once. Up close, he smells like smoke and Scotch and something more earthy that Harry immediately wants to bury his nose in. He resists the urge, straightening up and clearing his throat before taking a drag. He chokes on it and coughs, and Ian’s lips curve into a playful smile.

“So, Harry Hart. What is it that you do?” he asks.

“I’m a writer,” Harry tells him.

“Anything I know?” Ian actually looks interested, which is more than most people can say. Everyone wants to be a writer these days, when they don’t want to be some other sort of artist, so the admission tends to bring vapid smiles and dismissive nods.

“I doubt it,” Harry admits. “My books aren’t exactly popular.” The few he’s managed to finish, anyway.

“Shame,” Ian says. “I love meeting famous people.”

That little laugh in his voice is making it very difficult for Harry not to stick his tongue down his throat and lick it out. Ian is gorgeous, like God himself looked into Harry’s dreams and fashioned the perfect man from them. In an attempt to keep himself composed, he returns the question, “What about you? What do you do?”

Another little laugh, darker, and _oh_ does that do things to Harry. “I’m in the import/export business,” Ian says, and from the way he says it, Harry senses instinctively that he doesn’t want to ask any further questions about that. He wonders if Ian’s business is secret, or just so incredibly dull that the other man can convey how little he wants to discuss it just from the tone of his voice.

Harry changes the subject. “You’re from England, then? Did you grow up around here? In London, I mean.”

Ian blows out another puff of smoke and licks his lips. Harry tries not to stare. “I suppose it depends on what you count as growing up,” Ian says, “But regardless, I’m not English. I find the accent sets people at ease, though. They have a tendency to…not trust me when I make deals without it.”

“How positively medieval of them,” Harry says dryly. Ian tilts his head, and Harry says, “Go on, then. Where are you actually from?”

“Scotland.” He drops the false accent as he says the word, and a shiver runs down Harry’s spine because if Ian had sounded rough and dangerous with an English accent, that image is heightened with a Scottish one.

“And do you come here often?”

“To England?”

“To Kingsman,” Harry clarifies. “I’m a regular, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”

“First time,” Ian says. “I was looking to make a new…acquisition, so I stopped by. And I’m very glad I did.”

Harry’s not misreading it; Ian is definitely flirting with him. Two can play at that game. A dangerous thrill runs down his spine at the thought of being caught, but he pushes it away and plucks the toothpick out of his drink, taking the olive on it delicately between his teeth and dragging it off slowly, keeping eye contact with Ian as he sucks it into his mouth. After he swallows, he says, casually as he can manage, “So you’ve found your acquisition, then?”

“I think I have.” Ian’s eyes have gone dark, and he slides closer to Harry. “I’m staying in a hotel just down the street.”

“Is that so?” Harry teases, because everything about Ian is a damn tease and Harry deserves a little payback.

Ian leans even closer, and Harry goes rigid when he feels the man’s breath ghosting against his ear, “Come with me, and I’ll show you just how well I treat my acquisitions.”

“You must be a very good businessman,” Harry says, but there isn’t any air in his lungs, so it comes out more as a gasp.

Ian’s eyes glitter. “I get results.” He nudges Harry out of the booth and stands, straightening his suit jacket and looking over his shoulder. “Coming?” And with that, he strolls out of the bar.

Harry stares after him and mumbles under his breath, “Dear lord, I hope so,” before following after. He’s gambling far too much on this not to.

Ian’s hotel really is just down the street, and it’s the sort of place that Harry could only afford if he went home begging to his parents and apologizing for everything he’s ever said to them. It’s gorgeous, and Harry feels simultaneously right at home, brought up into this world as he was, and completely out of place, given his current status. Ian doesn’t seem to notice, striding through the lobby like he owns the place, with Harry on his heels. A bellhop gives them a strange, suspicious look when they step into the elevator, and Harry’s heart starts racing, but Ian says smoothly in his false British accent, “This is Mr. Hart. I’m consulting with him on a business matter. I’d appreciate it if no one disturbed us while we work.”

The bellhop doesn’t so much nod as bob his head like a chicken. “Yes, of course, sir.” Harry can't tell if it's disingenuous, a charade for every hotel guest, or if Ian really does command that much eager respect here.

The elevator clangs shut and grinds to a start. “You look worried,” Ian says in a low voice, sliding easily back into his normal accent.

“I’m not worried,” Harry lies.

One of Ian’s hands squeezes Harry’s hip, and he whispers, “I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.” Harry shudders involuntarily.

Ian’s suite is every bit as luxurious as the hotel lobby would suggest. He shrugs out of his suit jacket, hanging it on the back of one of the chairs as Harry looks around, doing his best not to gawk and rather failing at it. It's been a long while since he's seen opulence like this.

He's startled away from his staring when Ian steps in front of him, close enough for Harry to feel the heat of his body even though they aren't touching. They're the same height, more or less, but Ian has an air about him that makes him seem so much taller, and Harry instinctively shrinks back against the door. Ian places one flat palm against it, just over Harry's shoulder, and with the other tilts Harry's chin just so with two fingers. It's their only point of contact, but it feels electric.

“Having second thoughts?” Ian asks. There's caution in his voice, but also hunger.

Harry can't shake his head; he's frozen to the spot. He just barely manages to murmur, “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Ian draws away, and Harry suddenly feels cold. “You look nervous,” Ian says. “Maybe you should go home.” He turns away from Harry, absently rolling up his sleeves and folding them neatly at the elbow.

His forearms are incredibly distracting, but without the intense gaze fixed on him, Harry finds it in himself to say, “And here I thought we were going to discuss business.”

Ian pauses, his shoulders stiffening in an odd moment of tension, and he turns back to look at Harry. Harry bites his lip intentionally, smiling coyly, “After all, it wouldn't do to abandon an acquisition without at least checking the performance quality.”

There's a heartbeat between them, and then Ian’s serious expression breaks into a beaming smile and he laughs. “You're a cheeky little shit, aren't you?”

“So I've been told.”

Ian advances a step towards him, but this time Harry holds his ground. It seems to be the right thing to do, because Ian’s grin turns almost feral, “What else can that smart mouth do, hmm?”

“Come a little closer and find out.”

Ian does just that, closing the gap between them and curling his fingers possessively at the nape of Harry's neck, pressing their lips together in a surprisingly gentle kiss. He traces Harry's bottom lip with his tongue, waiting until Harry opens his mouth to slide it inside, and he tastes like Scotch and cigarettes.

Harry pulls away just far enough to whisper, “There's got to be a bedroom somewhere in here.” Ian chuckles and steps back, guiding Harry into one of the rooms off the suite, the centrepiece of which is a large, plush bed. Ian shoves the blankets to the side carelessly, and settles against the headboard, long legs stretched out in front of him. Like in the bar, he crooks his fingers for Harry to come closer.

Harry's not sure he could resist that call if he tried. He slides into Ian's lap, straddling him, and Ian tangles his fingers gently in Harry's hair, firm but not rough, and uses the other to hitch him closer. His hand is warm on Harry’s hip, his legs hot between Harry’s thighs, burning him up even through layers of fabric.

Ian chuckles at his eagerness when Harry fumbles a hand between them with the intent of unbuttoning their trousers, releasing his grip and reaching down to catch Harry’s wrist in his own hand and draw it back up. He presses his lips to Harry’s knuckles. “Been awhile?”

Harry flushes, and Ian whispers, “Oh, that is gorgeous.” He kisses Harry again, and Harry melts into it, grinding down into Ian’s lap and moaning against his mouth as he feels the hardness the other man is hiding beneath his trousers.

“I want you to fuck me,” Harry breathes against his lips. He’s many things, but indecisive in bed is not one of them. There’s so much risk involved in this scenario, but Harry silences the hissing voices in his head, because they are behind closed doors and he can take what he wants.

“Is that so?” Ian asks, and abruptly the world shifts, Ian moving fluidly to turn them so Harry is pressed into the mattress, Ian’s weight on top of him, large hands pinning his hips down. He tilts his head, and that dangerous smirk plays at his lips. “You seem awfully sure that’s what you’re going to get.”

Harry is man enough to admit that if he weren’t turned on by Ian’s...well, everything, he absolutely is by Ian’s soft but clear authority over the situation.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Ian tells him, and there’s no room for argument in his voice. “I am going to take my clothes off, because this is a very expensive suit and I’d like not to ruin it. You’re going to do the same. Then, you’re going to lay back down and not move unless I tell you to, and if you’re very good at following directions, then I’ll fuck you.” He hesitates, and his voice is gentler when he asks, “How does that sound to you?”

Harry does his best to squash the nervous voice in the back of his mind, and he nods. “It sounds perfect.” He’s not sure what sort of game Ian is playing, but if it gets him fucked, he’s amenable.

“Good.” Ian stands up and piece by careful piece sheds his suit, folding up each article of clothing and setting them on the dresser. Harry scrambles to do the same, although he doesn’t put quite so much effort in. The outfit is already wrinkled, so he’s not sure what the point would be. He can feel Ian’s eyes on him, but he turns his gaze to the bed, laying back down on it as requested and staring at the ceiling.

He feels the mattress dip, and Ian leans over him. “You know,” he says conversationally, “I’m a much better view.”

“Bit conceited of you,” Harry comments.

“Did I say you could speak?” Ian says, and his voice is between playful and strict and Harry can’t quite tell if he’s being serious or not. Either way, he shuts his mouth. “Anyway,” Ian continues, “I don’t think it’s conceited to acknowledge your own attractiveness. Don’t tell me you don’t look in the mirror and think ‘someone’s going to get off tonight thinking about those perfect lips.’” Ian casually straddles his thighs, “If you hadn’t come with me, I know I would have. Fucking gorgeous thought, one hand in your hair, your lips around the base of my cock. Maybe even paint them red so I can see the lipstick rings when you make me come.”

Harry shudders, because yes, that image is a bit of a turn-on, but he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t move.

Ian strokes one hand over Harry’s chest, tweaking a nipple just to see Harry flinch. He clenches his jaw to keep from crying out. “Beautiful,” Ian tells him. “But I want to hear you.”

“You told me I couldn’t speak,” Harry points out, and immediately gasps because Ian cups his half-hard erection and squeezes. A tiny part of his mind reminds him about not moving, and he freezes before he can buck his hips into the pressure.

Ian gives him another squeeze and then releases him. “Gorgeous. What do I want to do with you, hmm?”

Harry has no idea if he’s supposed to answer that or not. Ian runs a finger down Harry’s jawline and then over his lips. He withdraws, and then presses back with two, “Suck.”

Harry opens his mouth instinctively, sucking the two fingers in. He keeps eye contact with Ian, even though the more reserved part of him wants to look away. He ignores that part and swirls his tongue between the digits.

Abruptly, Ian pulls them away with a pop, trailing them over Harry’s chin and down his throat, leaving a thin trail of wetness that goes cold when Ian’s breath hits it.

“What would you let me do to you?” Ian asks him, and Harry’s stomach drops. It occurs to him, perhaps too late, that he doesn’t know a thing about the man who has brought him back to his hotel room with strict instructions to the staff not to be disturbed. No one knows where he is. He’s not even sure anyone would come running if he screamed.

“What do you want to do to me?” Harry asks, and he’s pleased that his voice doesn’t waver, although he can’t savour the victory, because Ian pulls away again, climbing fully off Harry.

“Sit up.”

Harry does, frowning. Ian shakes his head. He looks angry, and Harry’s heart rate picks up. He doesn’t know what he did wrong.

“You’re scared,” Ian says. He leaves no room for contradiction.

“Of course I’m scared,” Harry says. He’s not sure why this seems to bother Ian. “We’re both men, quite frankly I don’t know you, and the odds are astronomically high that you’ll turn out to either be an officer of the law who’ll arrest me for sodomy or a serial killing psychopath who just wants to subdue me so you can murder me quietly.” Code words aside, Harry likes to think practically, and sooner or later he’s going to pull one or the other.

“Is that really what you think?” Ian sounds caught between shock and disgust.

Harry shrugs. “I can’t expect much better, can I?”

“And yet you still want to have sex with me?”

Again, Harry shrugs. “Like I said, I can’t expect much better. You’re an attractive man, and we all might die tomorrow anyway, so I might as well take my chances.” He can see that Ian is still hung up on it, so he reaches over and touches the other man’s arm gently, “It’s not personal, I assure you, and it in no way hinders my interest in what we were trying to do.”

“You think I’m going to murder you.”

“I don’t think that,” Harry says. “I promise.” It’s not a lie anymore. Harry doubts an actual murderer would be taking this quite so personally. Harry's never had a bedpartner who even noticed his nerves before, much less done anything about it, and it's a somewhat novel experience.

Ian looks at him fully. “I don’t want to hurt you, you know.”

“Okay,” Harry gives him his most beguiling smile. “Prove it.”

“Prove it?” Ian raises his eyebrows at the challenge.

Harry leans closer, lowering his voice, “Make me feel good.”

Ian smiles again, smaller, softer, less aggressive, less dominant. “I can do that,” he says. He cups Harry’s cheek gently and brings him closer for a kiss.

Harry’s eyes flutter closed on instinct, and when he opens them again, he asks, “Should I still be lying still, or…?”

“How about we skip that part for now?” Ian says. “You didn’t seem especially into it, and the power imbalance...well, there are plenty of things we can still do without involving that.” He kisses Harry again, and tilts him back on the bed, “Still interested in me fucking you?”

Even with everything, Harry really, _really_ is. He nods, and Ian’s smile widens. “Alright then.” He sits back and rummages in the nightstand until he comes up with a package of condoms and a bottle of lube.

Harry props himself up on his elbows and shakes his head, plucking the condoms out of Ian’s hand. “We don’t need these. It’s not like you can get me pregnant.”

Ian raises an eyebrow and takes them back. “I’m a complete stranger. Are you really willing to leave your health up to chance? Because I’m not. These don’t just prevent pregnancy, you know.”

Harry spreads his legs, intentionally drawing Ian’s gaze down, enticing him. “It doesn’t feel as good,” he says, going for a seductive tone. Given the way Ian’s pupils dilate, he’s fairly certain he’s successful. “Tell me you don’t want to fuck me without the rubber. Do I look sick to you?”

Ian’s eyes flick down, and then back to Harry’s face. Frustratingly, he says, “This is non-negotiable, Harry. We use these, or we don’t have sex.”

Harry pouts. He really does hate the way rubber feels, and he prefers it when his partners don’t wear it. At least, from Ian’s tone, it doesn’t seem personal. “Fine,” he relents. He really does want to get fucked tonight, and there have been enough stalls in that plan as it is.

Ian smooths a hand up Harry’s leg. “Trust me,” he says. “You’re not going to feel like you’re missing out on anything.”

“Someone’s a bit overconfident,” Harry quips.

Ian pops the lid on the container of lube, slicking his fingers and grinning at Harry as he settles between his spread legs. “I wouldn’t say overconfident. I like to think I’m a fair judge of my own abilities. No one’s perfect.”

Harry wants to make a snappy comeback, but what comes out of his mouth instead is a choked-off gasp as Ian slides one finger inside him. He fights the urge to push back against it and instead focuses on relaxing his body. Ian opens him up methodically, and Harry lulls into the sensation, his mind settling into a pleasant hum. It’s been far too long since he’s been able to have this with another person, and his own fingers just don’t feel the same.

He’s rocketed sharply back into reality when Ian crooks his fingers inside him, pressing deliberately against his prostate. Harry clenches on instinct, his hips rocking back. “Fuck.”

“Thought you might be falling asleep on me,” Ian laughed. “And I do prefer a conscious partner, although, with a little conversation beforehand...” He swipes his fingers over the gland again, and Harry’s response turns into a breathy exhale. “Not tonight, though.”

Harry manages to collect himself enough to beg, “Fuck me, please.”

“And I wasn’t even trying to make you beg,” Ian actually sounds surprised, which Harry would normally consider a success, but he’s too busy whining as Ian removes his fingers, feeling uncomfortably empty in the time it takes Ian to roll on a condom, slick his cock with a few brief strokes, and position himself at Harry’s entrance.

“Ready?” he asks, infuriatingly.

Harry rolls them over, catching Ian by surprise, pinning him down with one hand on his chest and taking Ian’s cock in the other, lining the head up and then forcing his hips down the first inch or so. Ian swears and bucks his hips, and Harry meets him. It sinks Ian’s cock deeper inside him, thick and perfect even with the barrier between them.

“Since you’re so eager,” Ian spits out between gritted teeth, and before Harry can ask him what that means his world is flipped sharply as Ian reverses their positions and drives in, bottoming out in a sharp thrust that has Harry seeing stars. He tries to arch back against him, but Ian’s grip is a lot stronger than Harry’s, pinning him down by his hips, and Harry realizes he’s not going anywhere.

But that doesn’t mean he’s completely lacking in control. He clenches around Ian and begs again, “Fuck me, please.”

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?” Ian breathes. He pulls out almost all the way, and Harry is about to protest when he shoves back in, setting up a punishing rhythm, angling his thrusts slightly until a snap of his hips glances his cock against Harry’s prostate and Harry throws his head back and moans with pleasure. Ian chuckles, although it comes out more as a grunt. “Still think it’d be better without a condom?”

Harry clutches at Ian’s shoulders, rocking back to meet each thrust as best he can, given his lack of mobility. Fuck yes, he thinks it’d be better without a condom, but he’s almost grateful for Ian’s insistence. If this is how good it feels with one, Harry thinks sex without might actually kill him. But what a way to go.

He moans again to show his appreciation.

“I’m close,” Ian tells him, his brogue thicker as he loses himself in chasing his climax. “God, you feel good.” He removes one hand from Harry’s hip, wrapping it instead around his cock and stroking in counterpoint with his thrusts. It means he has to slow down, but Harry doesn’t mind the trade-off because it allows Ian to nail his prostate with every thrust.

They’re both slippery with sweat, and Harry just barely manages to get a hold on the back of Ian’s neck, dragging him down for a messy kiss that completely ruins the finesse of Ian’s ministrations. He doesn’t care; Ian kisses him like he’s been fucking Harry - viciously and very, _very_ well.

Harry’s orgasm takes him completely by surprise, and he nearly blacks out with the intensity of it. Ian groans against his lips and follows suit, releasing Harry so he can brace himself on his forearms rather than collapsing on top of Harry in a sweaty mess, a consideration that Harry is very thankful for.

When they’ve caught their breath, Ian pulls out carefully and gets out of bed, disposing of the condom and coming back with a cloth, which he hands over to Harry. It looks like a probably very expensive doily, and Harry raises his eyebrows but wipes himself clean and looks around for something to do with it before Ian plucks it out of his hands and tosses it somewhere in the vicinity of the en-suite bathroom.

Harry sits up as Ian settles back on the bed, his limbs loose and pliant with satisfaction. He goes to light his cigarette, and Harry wrinkles his nose without even thinking about it. Ian pauses. “What?”

“Nothing,” Harry says. He stands, moving to collect his trousers.

“Not nothing,” Ian says. “You made a face. What was that about?”

“I... I really don’t like smoking,” Harry admits. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ll just see myself out.”

“You don’t have to go.”

Harry turns, startled. Ian sets the cigarette and lighter on the nightstand and tilts his head, “It’s late, and I’d hate for such a beautiful man to walk home alone in the dark. There are all sorts of bad people out there.” His eyes glitter, and for a split second, Harry wonders if Ian is including himself among them. He dismisses the thought. Ian just proved very thoroughly that he shouldn’t be counted among the bad people of the world. Although, to be fair, not murdering Harry is probably a very low bar.

Rather than put any of those thoughts to words, Harry says, “It’s really alright.”

Ian stands too, and Harry blushes and looks away out of modesty. “At least let me walk you home,” Ian says.

“No, I couldn’t possibly impose.”

“Eyes over here,” Ian murmurs, turning Harry’s head with one large hand. His eyes are dark but surprisingly soft, and Harry looks down to avoid his gaze, only for his flush to deepen as the motion directs his gaze to Ian’s soft cock. Ian chuckles, “You’re cute when you’re shy.” He steps away, “You won’t let me walk you home. You don’t want to stay the night. We have found ourselves in a bit of a conundrum, haven’t we?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to stay,” Harry says, and then kicks himself.

Ian raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Harry shuffles his feet. “It’s just...people will talk, won’t they? Me, spending the night. They think I’m a business associate of yours, and it will look odd if I don’t leave until morning. I’ve never met a staff that didn’t love to gossip.”

Ian laughs. “You haven’t met my associates. Believe me, no one will find it strange if you don’t leave until morning. They might find it stranger if you left now, to be honest.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “In that case...I mean, assuming you don’t mind…”

Ian bounces back onto the bed, grinning as Harry looks away. He pats the space next to him. “Come on. Plenty of room. I won’t bite, I promise.”

Harry gingerly gets into bed next to him. He’s not sure where to put his hands.

Ian turns on his side to look at him. “That wasn’t your first time, was it?”

“Oh god.” Harry closes his eyes in mortification and then opens them again. “Was it really that bad?”

Ian laughs again, and dear lord, does this man ever _stop_ laughing? “Not bad,” Ian tells him. “Very, very good. Definitely one of the best shags I’ve had in a very long time. No, I’m referring to the rather prudish way you don’t want to look at my cock. It didn’t seem to bother you before, but now...”

Harry sighs. “I’ve had sex before,” he says.

“With men?”

“Yes, with men,” Harry says. He doesn’t talk about this, not even with Alistair. “It’s just been a while and I don’t…I don’t usually stick around afterwards.”

“Ah.” Ian nods. “You the ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em’ type, or just pretending you don’t like to take it up the arse?”

“You really don’t need to make it sound so crude,” Harry says. “I’m not in denial. It’s just different. People aren’t exactly tolerant of this sort of thing. Assuming you aren’t a murderer who will kill me in my sleep before it matters - another excellent reason not to spend the night, by the way - we could go to jail for what we just did.” He really doesn’t believe Ian is a murderer anymore, but he’s making a point.

“But it was worth it, wasn’t it?” Ian grins and wiggles his eyebrows in a way that should look silly but instead looks sexy. “What people don’t know won’t hurt them.”

Harry turns onto his back so he doesn’t have to look at Ian’s face. Ian props himself up on one elbow and turns serious. “You don’t regret it, do you?”

“No,” Harry says. He never does, and he especially doesn’t with Ian.

“Good.” Ian nods, as if that’s all he really needed from Harry. He settles himself more comfortably under the blankets. “Well, I promise you, even if I am a murderer, I will not kill you in your sleep tonight.”

“Why should I believe you?” Harry asks playfully, but he settles in too, feeling strangely comfortable and grinning at Ian.

Ian grins back. “Because,” he says, “if I kill you tonight, I don’t get to fuck you again in the morning.”

Harry can’t help laughing. He closes his eyes and falls asleep still smiling, listening to the sound of Ian’s steady breathing.


	3. Chapter 3

When Harry wakes up, it’s to sunlight that makes his eyes itch. Or perhaps that’s a reaction to the sharp smell of smoke. He blinks his eyes open slowly, propping his head up and squinting at the flesh-coloured blob by the far wall. His vision clears, and the blob assembles itself into the shape of a person: Ian, still completely naked, sitting on the windowsill and smoking a cigarette. When he notices Harry, he quickly stubs it out and flicks it away. “Sorry. Didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“Get in here before someone arrests you for public indecency!” Harry hears his mouth say. His head is still a little too fuzzy to connect itself. He sits up, rubbing at his temples.

Ian laughs and shakes his head. “Please. This high up, no one can see us.” He leers at Harry. “And if they could, they would thank me for the view.”

Somehow, possibly because Ian really does have a nice cock, it comes off as charming rather than arrogant. It also helps that, despite his words, Ian backs away from the window and sits on the edge of the bed. Like last night, he seems completely comfortable nude, without shame even in the daylight. Harry is torn between drinking in every inch of exposed flesh and turning his face away. He clutches the sheets a little higher around his waist to preserve his own modesty and choses somewhere between the two, keeping his eyes mostly around Ian’s chest and shoulders.

“You’re not a morning person, are you?” Ian observes, watching Harry run his fingers groggily through his sleep- and sex-mussed hair.

“Depends on the day,” Harry manages, tearing his gaze from the surprisingly defined muscles in Ian’s arms to look him in the eye. Really, he’s not a waking-up person, so he can be wide awake in the morning, provided he didn’t go to sleep the night before. His days sometimes go like that, without a steady, solid pattern, but Ian doesn’t need to know that. Or, if he knows as many writers as he suggested, then perhaps he’s guessed anyway but doesn’t think it odd. Either way, Harry tells himself it doesn’t matter.

“And today?” Ian asks, reminding Harry that they’d been having a conversation.

“Definitely not today,” Harry says after a minute.

“Shame.” Ian doesn’t actually look regretful, more playful. “Here I was hoping for a round two, maybe even three, before you scooted off to wherever cute little writers go when they haven’t been murdered by their bedpartners.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Harry asks, although his cock twitches with interest at Ian’s low tone.

“Nope,” Ian tells him. “Perks of being my own boss. I get to pick my hours, and my hours are mostly late afternoon, evening, and night. Very early morning on occasion, but I try to avoid that.”

“So am I actually a ‘work thing’ then?”

“More like a night off.” Ian stands and moves to the nightstand, flicking open his diary. “I’ve got a late lunch today with a...prospective client, and then a tentative personal dinner tonight, then...ugh, another meeting. But my morning is completely free. Unless you’ve got somewhere you need to be?”

It’s tempting, but Harry shakes his head regretfully. “I really should be going.” He’s stayed too long as it is. He shouldn’t have stayed the night. He knows it just makes it harder on him in the morning. Not that he usually wakes up next to his bedpartners, but the few times he has are always harder. He stands up, collecting his clothing off the floor and starting to dress.

“Need to get home to the missus?” Ian doesn’t sound accusatory, just curious.

Harry raises his eyebrows, halfway through buttoning his shirt. “In case last night didn’t make it clear to you, there is no missus.”

“Plenty of lads out there in unhappy marriages.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t condone the idea of cheating in any scenario, but, “I was actually referring to the fact that we were both men.”

Ian raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, speaking from experience, there are plenty of people who like the lads and the ladies. Bisexuals do exist.”

“Bisexual?” Harry pauses, frowning. He’s certain he’s heard the word before, but not in this sort of context. Roxy would know.

“Someone who has sex with men and women,” Ian says, like it should be obvious. “I thought authors were supposed to be well read. Chaddock’s translation of _Psychopathia Sexualis_?”

“I read fiction,” Harry defends himself. “I don’t have time for nonfiction nonsense, and when I need it, I have people who read that sort of thing for pleasure.” Roxy always gets a kick out of a new topic. He wonders if he should recommend that book to her.

“Just as well,” Ian admits. “Krafft-Ebing was rather under the impression that the lot of us homosexuals were sick in the head. You should hear what he has to say about lesbians.” He winks at Harry, who decides he’ll not tell Roxy to add that one to her reading list.

“So which are you?” Harry can’t help but ask. “Bisexual or homosexual?”

“Does it matter?” Ian cocks his head.

Harry shrugs. “Just curious, I suppose.” He doesn’t think he’d mind either way, but he feels an uncomfortable thrill at actually being able to discuss these topics with someone. It’s not that he couldn’t with Alistair and James or even Roxy and Amelia, but he _knows_ them. It’s different with a stranger, someone he’ll probably never see again. It’s oddly freeing.

Ian shrugs. “I don’t mind a bit of flirting with either, but when it comes to who I’ll take home at the end of the night, it’s strictly the lads.”

“So you’re homosexual then. Like me.”

“I prefer gay,” Ian says. “Less of a mouthful. Or queer, if you like, I’m fine with either. But never a fairy.” He smirks. “Doesn’t give the right image.”

Harry isn’t especially a fan of any of those terms, having heard most of them hurled at people he cares about or dripping with disgust from his own parents lips. Then again, he’s not a fan of the word homosexual either. So he doesn’t say anything, just finishes righting his clothing, almost disappointed to be done. He fidgets for a moment before he says, “I had a lovely time last night.”

Ian snorts. “You make it sound like I invited you up for tea.” At Harry’s slightly crestfallen look, he adds in a softer voice, “I had a lovely time too. Not just the sex. Not a lot of people stay to chat.”

“Well, I don’t normally,” Harry says. Ian looks surprisingly pleased at that. It makes something in Harry’s chest glow in a way he doesn’t want to examine too closely. He gestures towards the door. “And the hotel staff...they’ll just let me out?”

Ian nods. “They won’t give you any trouble.” He hesitates, “Am I going to see you again?”

“I frequent Kingsman. If you do end up acquiring it, I don’t see why not.” He’s a little flattered that Ian asked, but nervous at the direction he thinks Ian is going.

“I meant like this.” Ian makes a hand gesture between himself and Harry, confirming Harry’s suspicion. “Like last night.” It’s surprisingly delicate, considering how he hadn’t seemed bothered by vulgarity before, even apparently delighting in it.

“Probably not,” Harry admits. “I don’t make it a habit of repeating partners. Riskier, you know.”

“Is it really?” Ian asks, sounding doubtful.

Harry has always thought so. He shrugs. “The more times you see the same person, the better chance of getting caught. Sooner or later, someone will put the pieces together.”

“They could put the pieces together anyway,” Ian points out. “This way you could have half a chance of a relationship, a life with someone.”

“What if I don’t want a life with someone?” But even as he says it he thinks of James and Alistair, tucked away together in their tiny flat. He always assumed that would never be him. He’s too afraid to see anyone for more than a night, to risk getting attached. That’s the real reason he doesn’t like repeat partners. James and Alistair are discrete, and they have it well enough, but Harry is certain if he ever tried the same, he’d be too paranoid of being discovered. Safer, on multiple counts, to remain unattached.

“Are you saying you’d rather shag your way through the single gay men in London until you die?” Ian asks incredulously, and although it’s a perfectly viable response to Harry’s last statement, Harry can’t help but wonder if Ian is following his train of thought.

“Maybe,” he says. He recognizes that he’s stalling, and takes a step towards the door and away from Ian’s strange magnetism. All the same, he finds himself asking, “Isn’t that what you do?” He’s assuming, anyway. He can’t actually remember if Ian said much about his bedpartners.

“Ah, but it’s different for me,” Ian points out. “I travel for work so much, it would hardly be fair to drag someone along behind me. If I ever settled down, or I found someone who was willing to come along, it’d be a different story.”

Harry all but presses himself against the door, but he can’t bring himself to open it. It feels like at any moment the string tethering him to Ian will snap back, and he’ll go tumbling forward again, back into the other man’s arms. “I should go,” he says, and even the words are hard to get out. He can’t do this. He isn’t supposed to let himself do this.

As if he somehow inexplicably understands, Ian’s lips quirk into a little smile as he says, “Well then, I’ll see you around, Harry Hart.” He tilts his head, looking as predatory as he had last night, even without the shadows. “Possibly,” he adds, “whether you like it or not.”

Those words are like a spell, releasing Harry, who suddenly feels capable of leaving the room. He smiles back weakly. “See you around, Ian Grey.” The words are hollow; he has no intention to ever cross Ian’s path again. He can’t allow himself to do that, not with the hold Ian already seems to have over him. He slips out, through the bedroom door, out of the suite, and into the elevator without looking back.

The occupants of the lobby - bellhop, a couple checking in, and the desk manager - don’t even notice him as he leaves the hotel.

Roxy, on the other hand, notices him the moment he turns down their street. She cups her hands to her mouth and whoops, “Look who’s finally home!”

As he gets closer, Harry hisses, “You don’t need to alert the entire neighbourhood!”

Roxy grins up at him. “Did you go home with anyone?”

Harry sighs. “Define home?”

Roxy allows her mouth to drop open in faux-shock. Or possibly in legitimate shock. Harry’s not sure it matters either way. “Harry Hart! Did you shag someone in public?”

“What? No.” Harry gives her a sharp look. “They had a hotel room, is all.” He’s careful with the pronouns, as always. To say ‘she’ is too much of a lie, and he hates lying to Roxy, especially since she already knows about him, but there’s no chance in hell he’ll use ‘he’ out loud.

“Foreigner?” Roxy asks.

Harry nods. “Here on business. From the states.”

“Oh, American?” Roxy wiggles her eyebrows. “These days, they’re all desperate to feel something, and they’re suckers for a pretty accent like yours.”

“Actually, I was the one taken in by their accent,” Harry admits. “And they weren’t American. Scottish, actually.”

“Huh.” Roxy looks interested.

Harry steps over her before she can ask any more questions, and she moves her legs out of his way before putting them back. “As much as I’d love to chat, I think perhaps I should get to work, and I think you should do the same.”

“I’ve got a little time,” Roxy says, but she gets to her feet anyway. “Maybe I’ll stop by Miller’s. Amelia’s got some new books in for me.”

“Anything interesting?” Harry asks idly. He debates asking her to pick up his butterfly book and decides against it. It’s an excuse to get out of the house at some point, and he honestly does need more of those.

“I’ll let you know after I read them,” Roxy tells him. She bounds off down the street, then stops and turns back to shout, “Oh, and Uncle wants to see you for dinner. He’s dragging us all out tonight.”

“If he wants to invite me, he can do it himself!” Harry calls back, but Roxy has already disappeared around the corner.

When he gets upstairs, he finds out that Alistair actually has. There’s a note, in Alistair’s tidy scrawl, wedged into his door.

 _Harry_ , it reads _, terribly sorry to have missed you again. If you’re interested, James and I would very much appreciate you coming to The Birch Tree this evening at eight o’clock. It will be a quiet dinner, just close friends. And don’t worry about the cooking. I’ve handled the chef dilemma._

Harry doesn’t bother coming up with excuses in his head. He knows he’ll go. He always does. It’s Alistair. It’d be rude to say no. And besides, it wasn’t like he had other plans for the night. He can afford a little get-together with a few people. He presumes the friends Alistair referenced, besides himself, James, and Harry, are Roxy and possibly Amelia.  

Harry lets himself into his apartment, setting the note down on the table where it hopefully will not be forgotten. Then he bathes, relaxing in the water - Ian rather wore him out, so he’s still a bit sore from last night, not that he would admit it. It’s only when the water turns cold that he reluctantly climbs out and pulls on his favourite dressing gown.

He winds up at his desk before he gets a chance to put proper clothes on, pulling out a fresh piece of paper and scribbling idly with his pen until a scene begins to take shape. It’s not the sort of runaway mischief Eliza had been up to yesterday, and it certainly doesn’t fit in with the novel he was originally planning to write. And yet, as he starts to outline a smoky bar and puts Eliza in it, he can already tell it’s going to be much better than most of the crap he’s been producing lately. It feels alive under his fingers where the pages had felt dead yesterday, and the pen flies along without much conscious help from him.

He looks up from writing just in time for the sun to start to slink towards the horizon. It’s startling but not uncommon for him; he’s routinely sunken so deeply into his writing that most of a day can pass without him noticing. He quickly places the pages he’s been working on under the paperweight he keeps on his desk, a purple emperor butterfly set in glass. If he hurries, he’ll have just enough time to change into something more appropriate for an evening out.

Roxy isn’t on the stoop when he leaves, nor are there any smoking cigarette butts to signal that she’s been there recently. Harry assumes she’s already on her way, smelling for once of roses instead of fish, and dressed in what most people would consider more appropriate attire for a lady. Not that Harry minds her trousers, when she’s wearing ones that aren’t worn through. Roxy looks better than he does in a proper suit, and he’ll willingly throw down with anyone who says otherwise, poor fighting skills be damned.

The Birch Tree is crowded, but when Harry gives his name to the maitre’d he is immediately led to a quiet backroom. Harry knows Alistair prefers to sit away from the patrons even when he’s not hosting dinner parties. His reasoning is that fewer people can see him and Alistair is, first and foremost, a private person. Harry doesn’t mind, and it means James and Alistair can properly act a couple without fear that customers will complain. Their relationship is something of an open secret amongst the staff, so they’re safe back here, or as safe as they can be.

Alistair, suited and serious as always, rises to meet him as he enters. “Harry. Glad you could makes it.”

Harry shakes his hand. “You know I could never turn down an invitation from you. Sorry again about yesterday, I really should have called ahead.”

From his place at the table, James says, “You really didn’t have to. Our door is always open, you know that. But it’s good to see you, Harry. Always better to talk when no one’s in a rush.”

“Don’t tilt in your chair like that. You’ll break your neck,” Harry tells him by way of greeting. James’s own suit is an outlandish green and yellow checked ensemble, the one Harry knows to be his favourite. It’s a wonder Alistair lets him dress himself, much less leave the house like that. But Harry goes over and gives James’s shoulder a friendly squeeze anyway.

“Your note said you’d sorted the situation with the chef who fell asleep on the job?” he asks. “How did that go?”

“Well enough,” Alistair says, although he grimaces. “I hate having to fire people, and he really was good. I’ve referred him to another place with more flexible hours. Hopefully he will have better luck there.”

“You have a heart of gold,” James tells him, with all the affection of someone completely besotted. “How unfortunate that people will take shameless advantage of it.”

“The only person I see taking advantage of me is you,” Alistair says dryly, with a twist of his lips. Harry chuckles, and James grins.

Behind him, Harry hears someone else entering the room. Alistair’s expression doesn’t shift, remaining one of calm familiarity, and so Harry assumes the newcomer is Roxy, given that she’s not seated at the table yet. Playfully, he says, “Darling, it’ll be a relief to finally see you out of those god-awful trousers.”

Sharp silence falls over the room, and Harry looks up and kicks himself. Ian Grey arches an eyebrow at him, and his accent is British again when he says, “Bit forward of you, considering we just met. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my trousers.”


	4. Chapter 4

Harry’s mouth runs dry. Alistair and James stare at him, a mixture of disbelief and intrigue on both of their faces. Ian looks vaguely amused more than anything else. Numbly, Harry justifies, “I thought you were Roxy.” It enough to make James and Alistair stop looking at him in shock, accepting his answer, and Harry relaxes minutely.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Ian says. He offers out his hand. “Ian Grey. I’m a friend of Alistair’s.”

Part of Harry protests in confusion, wanting to say that they know each other, that they met yesterday. But he keeps a lid on that part of himself and shakes Ian’s hand. “Harry Hart. Also a friend of Alistair’s. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He appreciates Ian’s charade, even if it’s not meant for his benefit.

“Likewise.” Ian takes another step into the room and gestures to the young woman standing just behind him. “This is Olivia. Officially, she’s my assistant, but she’s family to me.”

Harry assumes he means that figuratively, given that Olivia looks nothing like him. She’s of some Asian descent (although Harry would never be able to decipher exactly where), for one thing, and a great deal shorter than Ian, with dark hair and dark eyes, the latter sparkling with the same calculated intelligence that Ian’s do. She’s wearing a similar suit to Ian, although in a slightly more feminine cut, and she’s smirking. Harry gets the feeling she might be in on the fact that Ian and Harry have already been acquainted, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. Either way, her grip is firm when Harry takes her proffered hand to shake. “Olivia March,” she introduces herself. Her accent, like Ian’s, is British, although Harry can’t determine if it’s false or not. He smiles and greets her politely. She is, Harry assumes, the girl Roxy referenced the day before, and he can understand, in an objective way, given that she is far too young for him and also a woman, why Roxy has developed a crush.

And speaking of the devil, Roxy breezes in barely a heartbeat after they finish exchanging formalities and take their seats, just shy of fashionably late, with her hair swept up under a hair piece with a few too many feathers for Harry’s taste and wearing a boxy, royal blue dress that does wonders for her eyes.

“Mr. Grey!” she chirps in surprise. “Uncle didn’t tell me he was inviting you!”

Ian stands again, sweeping into a little half-bow and taking her hand between his, kissing it like something out of a regency novel. “I hope it’s a pleasant surprise.”

Roxy giggles, and Ian winks at her. “A very pleasant surprise, Mr. Grey” she says. Harry pretends the familiarity between them doesn’t rankle him for some unidentifiable reason, although he hides his balled fists beneath the tablecloth.

“We’re friends, Roxy,” Ian tells her. “Please, call me Ian. And I believe you and Olivia are acquainted?”

Roxy colours slightly when Olivia mimics Ian in kissing her hand. Harry has never seen Roxy so flustered around a girl, and he can’t decide whether he approves or not. She seems nice enough, but she’s close to Ian, and Harry can tell that’s a disaster waiting to happen.

“I can’t decide whether you look more beautiful in a dress or trousers,” Olivia teases Roxy.

“I, uh, well…” Roxy stammers eloquently before finding her tongue enough to say, “Thank you. You look lovely as well.”

Olivia preens just a bit, straightening the lapels of her suit jacket.

Alistair clears his throat, “Now that everyone’s arrived, shall we eat?”

“Yes, sorry,” Roxy says. “Didn’t mean to hold everything up.” She drops a kiss on James’s cheek in greeting, squeezes her uncle’s shoulder briefly, and then plops into her own chair.

Harry waits for Alistair to order first, and he knows he’s not the only one waiting for the man to take the lead. It’s his restaurant, after all, and Harry has never been to The Birch Tree before. Between that and the staffing snafu Alistair mentioned, Harry figures it’s better to see what he does first.

Alistair’s order is fairly standard for him, a simple pasta dish, and everyone follows his lead, keeping their orders simple. The waiter leaves, and silence settles over them briefly. To break it, Harry asks, “So how do you know Alistair, Ian?”

“We met just before the war,” Ian explains. “I was looking for worthwhile investments, he needed an investor for one of his restaurants. We found each other by sheer chance, and we’ve stayed in contact, on and off.” He holds his glass up in a small toast, grinning as he adds, “You make a lot of friends when you have deep pockets.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Harry says, although he knows Alistair doesn’t invite most of his investors over for dinner, no matter how deep their pockets. Alistair must have seen something in Ian to make him want to befriend him, although Harry can’t imagine what.

At his look, Alistair says simply, “I found Ian intriguing. We didn’t get much of a chance to become acquainted before…” Alistair pauses, and from the way James shifts, Harry suspects he takes Alistair's hand under the table. Alistair continues, “Before I enlisted. But it’s good he’s back in town now. We’ll have plenty of opportunity to get more familiar with each other. Especially since my...attachments have been cleared up.” It’s the sort of wry humour Harry expects from Alistair, although he can’t quite pinpoint what he means.

“Ian flirted with him,” James informs Harry in a stage-whisper. “Apparently he was quite put-out when he found out Alistair was in a committed relationship.”

Harry’s eyes widen, and he looks back and forth between Ian and James. Ian laughs and tilts his head, “I wouldn’t say put-out. You two make such a lovely couple.” He turns his gaze towards Harry, responding to his shock at the openness of it all. “Given that, surely it can’t bother you if I have relationships with men?”

It takes Harry a moment to realize he’s being baited. There’s a calculating glitter in Ian’s eyes. Harry straightens up, and with as much dignity as he can manage, he says, “It would be hypocritical if it bothered me, considering we’re in the same boat, so to speak.” Alistair and James both give him startled looks at the admission, and he avoids their gazes.

“Ugh,” Roxy jokes playfully, “You’d think at least one other person at this table would be attracted to women.”

“What makes you think there isn’t?” Olivia asks mildly. Roxy’s entire face lights up, and a warning goes off in Harry’s head. He’s already told himself that a repeat encounter with Ian is off the table. That promise will be nearly impossible to keep if Roxy and Olivia start seeing each other.

“When did you arrive in London?” he asks, just to change the conversation.

“Yesterday,” Ian tells him. “I’m here on business, but that doesn’t mean I can’t catch up with old friends. Especially since one of them is related to my business.”

“Business,” Harry says. “Investing?” Now he’s the one baiting Ian. He remembers the other man’s answer at the bar last night. He’s curious to see if it matches tonight.

Ian doesn’t rise to the bait. “My business is a little of a lot of things. Keeping it all straight is a job in and of itself. That’s why having a trustworthy assistant is so important.” He gives Olivia a fond smile. “I’ll be in town for a few months at least before I have to go back to the states.”

“Where in the states?” Roxy asks. “I’ve always wanted to see New York City.”

“We’re largely based there,” Olivia tells her. “Maybe we can take you sometime. The boat ride’s a drag, but the view pulling into harbor is worth it.”

“That’d be amazing!” Roxy beams.

Conversation slows to a near halt as their food arrives, and then shifts towards New York fashion, led by Roxy and Olivia; the latest Shakespeare performances at a local theatre, led mostly by James and Ian; and the effects of the war on the stock market, led again by Ian and supplemented by Olivia and Alistair. Harry stays mostly quiet through it all, only throwing in an occasional brief comment as he picks at his food. His stomach is too upset to eat much, unsettled at two different parts of his life being in such close proximity.

They finish up, Alistair insisting on paying the bill amid much protest from Ian, who finally agrees to it so long as Alistair and James comes to one of his places soon to let Ian treat them. “Roxy and Harry are invited of course,” he adds, and Alistair thanks him and says he’ll consider it.

As they leave the restaurant, Harry catches Ian just a few paces out the door. Quietly, he asks, “Do you have a minute?”

Ian glances at Olivia, who pulls out her watch. She nods. “You have another appointment at Kingsman, but not for an hour. Plenty of time.”

Ian nods at her. “Thank you. Give us a moment, please?”

She turns on her heel and runs after Roxy, who slows to accommodate her.

When Ian turns back to Harry, he asks, “What did you want to talk about?”

“What was that in there?” Ian frowns in confusion, and Harry clarifies, “Pretending we didn’t know each other.”

“I was under the impression that you wouldn’t want our...acquaintance known. It would raise questions.” The last word is said pointedly.

That’s actually rather thoughtful of him. “What about the accent? Does Alistair not know-”

“That’s I’m Scottish?” Ian shakes his head. “I told you, people trust me more when I sound like this. And I can’t very well drop it now. That’d look even worse.”

“So you’re going to continue to lie to my friend?”

Ian raises an eyebrow. “Why do you care? What does it matter if I sound British or Scottish or American? It’s just an accent.”

“It matters because…” Harry tries to figure out what exactly about it bothers him, but the only thing he can come up with is, “It’s lying. You’re pretending to be someone you’re not.”

“Oh, and you don’t do that?” Ian doesn’t sound antagonistic, but the words still itch underneath Harry’s skin like writhing maggots.

“I do what I have to to keep myself safe,” he snaps, a touch more defensively than perhaps necessary.

“What makes you think I’m not doing the same thing?”

Harry frowns, and Ian holds his gaze placidly, head tilted slightly, illuminated by the streetlamp so that his face has a rosy, almost angelic glow. It takes a lot of effort for Harry not to reach out and trace his cheekbones to ensure he’s flesh and blood and not a figment of Harry’s imagination.

“You two alright?” Harry jumps at James’s voice. He hadn’t noticed his friends come up behind them, walking closer together than entirely appropriate. James practically has his hand in Alistair’s back pocket.

“We’re fine,” Ian says smoothly. “Harry was just asking me about my business.”

Harry leaps on the excuse. “You know me. Always looking for new perspectives for my writing.”

James nods, although it’s clear he’s not convinced. He shrugs. “We’ll see you later, then?”

Harry and Ian both bid them goodnight, and Alistair gives them both a brief nod in return, and then the couple glides off into the darkness, past where Olivia and Roxy are chatting on the street corner and then out of sight. Ian turns his attention back to Harry. “It was good to see you again.”

“It was?” The words are out of his mouth before Harry can even attempt to stop them.

“Of course.” Ian smiles like that amuses him. “You’re a fascinating man, Harry Hart.”

Harry sort of wishes Ian would stop using his full name. It has a spellbinding effect on him. “You should go,” he says. “I’d hate for you to be late for your meeting.”

“I have a few minutes more,” Ian says but Harry shakes his head.

“You really should go,” he says, more insistently, and leaves off the bit where he wants to add ‘or I’ll have to come with you.’

“If you’re that desperate to be rid of me,” Ian teases him. He holds out a hand, and Harry takes it to shake. When they let go, he realizes that Ian has slipped something into his palm. He looks down at the key, and then back up at Ian, who shrugs. “In case you’re not _that_ desperate to be rid of me.” He turns and strides off, picking up Olivia on his way, who looks both ways and then plants a quick kiss on Roxy’s cheek. Harry doesn’t need to be close to see the way Roxy ducks her head, embarrassed, and then does a giddy little twirl when Ian and Olivia are out of sight. She all but skips off on her own way home, leaving Harry standing under the streetlamp looking down at the key he’s holding.

He paces the length of the street three times before he decides what to do, the shop lights dimming around him. At the end of the third lap, he doesn’t turn around, but keeps walking and doesn’t stop until he finds himself outside Ian’s hotel.

The bellhop stops him in the lobby. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, “but if you aren’t accompanied by a guest, I can’t allow you upstairs.”

Harry shows him the key. “Ian Grey gave me this?”

The bellhop looks suspicious. “You were with Mr. Grey last night, weren’t you?”

Harry nods and hopes he sounds convincing as he says, “We have business we were discussing? He has a meeting right now, but he told me I could wait for him upstairs.”

The bellhop deliberates for a moment more, and then calls over to the front desk, “Is Mr. Grey expecting a visitor?”

The concierge calls back, “He said a potential business partner might drop by, and that he’d have a key.”

This apparently is not what the bellhop wants to hear, because his face twists up in displeasure, but he gestures Harry towards the lift. “Terribly sorry, sir.”

“It’s quite alright,” Harry says. “You’re just doing your job.” It must redeem him slightly in the bellhop’s eyes, because he stops glaring daggers at Harry.

When Harry lets himself into Ian’s suite, it looks much the same as the night before, except for a bottle of champagne on ice chilling in the lounge area. Harry blames his nosy writer’s instincts for the way he goes over to look at it. When he picks up the bottle (and from the design on the label alone Harry’s convinced it probably costs too much and tastes like dirt), he notices the card beneath it.

_I made a little bet with myself. Thought I might be able to get you to come back._

Harry doesn’t know if he should be amused or irritated. He places the bottle back down and goes into the bedroom. The bed is made up, with no sign of the activities of the previous night. The condoms and lube are still stashed in the nightstand, right on top of the copy of the Bible, which Harry imagines has to be some sort of sacrilege, not that he imagines Ian particularly cares. He pulls open the closet to find a series of suits and, much to his surprise, three dresses in various colours. He supposes they’re Olivia’s, although why she doesn’t store them in her own room - and she must have one, given that there’s no sign Ian has company in this suite - he isn’t sure.

Most of the suits are black or grey, mostly pinstripes although a few are checked and a few are plain fabric. There is one, however, that is an alarming shade of red. Harry could see James wearing it, terrible taste that he has, but he’s not sure what it’s doing in Ian’s closet.

He turns his attention to the message pad by the phone instead. The top sheet is torn away, but there’s faint impressions on the paper, and Harry can’t help himself. He takes the pencil lying next to it and rubs the lead over the blank sheet until words appear: _docks 1:30 to load shipment_. Part of the import/export thing Ian was referring to, Harry assumes. He crumples up the paper and tosses it in the wastebasket, hoping Ian doesn’t notice when he gets back.

Apparently people are making a habit of startling him today, because he nearly leaps out of his skin when the door opens and Ian calls, “Anyone home?”

Harry ducks back out of the bedroom, sure his cheeks are as scarlet as the suit he found. “Couldn’t stay away, eh?” Ian laughs. His suit jacket and waistcoat are already off, and he moves to pick up the bottle of champagne and fill two glasses.

“I wasn’t snooping,” Harry tells him, which he supposes dooms him because it’s incredibly obvious he’s lying.

“I’d be disappointed if you weren’t,” Ian says casually. “That was rather the point of sending you here without me. Did you get to the bathroom yet? I find people hide all their best secrets in the bathroom.”

“No. I hadn’t made it that far.” Harry takes the glass of champagne that Ian offers him. “Is this for me?”

Ian lifts an eyebrow and looks around. “Do you see any other gorgeous gentlemen hanging about?”

“I meant the note. You made a bet with yourself that...someone would come back. Was that for me?”

“You don’t know me very well, so you might find it hard to believe, but I don’t usually invite pretty boys like you back to my rooms.”

Harry squirms at the intensity of Ian’s gaze. “We’re the same age,” he says, unsure why that’s the thing he chooses to protest, although he’s actually not sure how old Ian is. He looks to be roughly Harry’s age, at least. Still, he insists, “I’m not a boy.”

“No, you’re not,” Ian agrees. He clinks his glass against Harry’s. “And a good thing, too.”

Harry isn’t sure what to say to that, so he downs the entire glass of champagne in one go to avoid having to respond. He was right; it does taste like dirt.

He feels a hand on his, and looks up as Ian takes the glass away from him. He’s only half done with his own, but he sets both on the table and takes a step closer to Harry. He tilts his head, and Harry can’t help but rock on his feet, swaying into Ian, expecting a kiss before Ian whispers, “Why are you here?”

Harry leans back. “What do you mean, why am I here? You invited me.”

“I know that,” Ian says. He’s still too close, and Harry feels like he can’t breathe, like simply by being in his space Ian is taking away all of the oxygen between them. “I didn’t really expect you to come back.”

Harry glances at the champagne, the note peeking out from beneath the bottle, and Ian follows his gaze. “You know,” he says, “I’m not always as confident as I seem. I hoped, but...you made it pretty clear what you think about repeat partners.”

“Do you…” Harry swallows around his dry throat and tries again, “Do you usually bed the same person multiple times?”

Ian actually steps back again, and Harry feels the oxygen rush back into his lungs. He’s starting to get used to Ian’s little dance. “You make me sound unromantic,” Ian says, and dear lord he’s actually pouting.

“It’s sex,” Harry points out.

“What we did was sex,” Ian returns. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have intentions besides bedding a person when I’m interested.”

“Oh.” Harry doesn’t know how to take that. Carefully, he asks, “So, do you have a partner? A long-term partner, I mean, not just someone like me.” Someone like me. A tasteful way of saying ‘someone you brought back for the sole purpose of fucking.’

“No,” Ian says. “And I haven’t in a very long time, although not for lack of desire. As I mentioned last night, my job...it makes things difficult sometimes.” He shakes, like he’s physically ridding himself of the thought, and when he looks back at Harry he’s beaming again, “But you’re here now. You came back.”

“I did.” And right on cue, Ian steps back into his space at the words, curling his fingers around the back of Harry’s neck. Harry swallows. “I came back,” he echoes. “At least for tonight.”

“I’ll take tonight.” Ian gives a little tug, and Harry falls easily into his arms, bracing his hands on Ian’s shoulders, his button-down wrinkling under Harry’s fingers. Neither man pays any attention to that, and Harry moves when Ian nudges at his knees, thinking absurdly for a moment that they’re going to waltz before the back of his leg hits against the sofa and Ian’s hands guide him down.

The cushions are plusher than Harry expects, and he sinks into them even more when Ian’s weight covers him. Ian straddles one of Harry’s thighs, the hand not on Harry’s neck smoothing up his chest and then back down again, settling low on Harry’s stomach. His kisses are less aggressive this time, although a bit messier, lapping into Harry’s mouth, and all Harry can think is that Ian is savouring him.

He slides his hands from Ian’s shoulders, reaching down to untuck his shirt and feel the warm skin beneath it. Ian’s breath hitches and he grins against Harry’s lips, returning the favour, his nails scratching lightly at Harry’s stomach. Harry shudders and Ian turns his lips away from Harry’s, nosing down his neck to find his pulse point and suck a dark love bite into it. Harry pushes him away. “No marks.”

“Right,” Ian says. “Sorry.” He presses one last kiss to the spot, and then moves on, trailing softer kisses along his neck. The leg between Harry’s slides forward and Harry rocks down against it on instinct, his cock hardening rapidly at the friction.

“Look at you,” Ian whispers.

Harry shakes his head, dragging Ian away from his neck. “No,” he says firmly, and Ian freezes, looking abruptly concerned before Harry insists, “Don’t use that voice on me in bed.”

Ian understands, and his accent switches smoothly back to Scottish when he says, “Better?”

“Much,” Harry purrs, and pulls Ian back to him, nipping at his lower lip. Ian bites him right back, and Harry groans. One of Ian’s hands slides between them and undoes Harry’s trousers.

Into his ear, Ian whispers, “I think it’s my turn to show you what my mouth can do.” Harry doesn’t even have time to process that statement before Ian is moving back. The sofa is a bit cramped, but Ian manages to fit his long legs on it, even as he stretches Harry out, tugging his trousers and pants down so that Harry’s cock springs free. Ian throws Harry’s legs over his shoulders and wastes no time, taking half of Harry’s length on the first swallow. Harry cries out and reaches for Ian’s head before, unable to get a purchase against Ian’s smooth scalp, he moves his hands to Ian’s shoulder, clutching desperately as Ian bobs again and takes a little more down his throat.

Harry whimpers, “Jesus, don’t stop.”

Ian hums, which Harry translates into ‘of course not,’ and his fingers dig in harder as the vibrations threaten to undo him in an embarrassingly short amount of time. It doesn’t help matters when Ian goes all the way down, his nose pressed into the curls at the base of Harry’s cock, relaxing his throat so the head can slip down and he can swallow around Harry and make him _sob_.

All too soon, Harry pushes at Ian’s shoulder in warning, no longer gripping. Urgently, he says, “If you don’t stop, I’m - _oh,_ I’m going to come, _Jesus_.”

Ian takes it as a personal challenge and sucks harder, and Harry practically screams as he comes down Ian’s throat. Ian lifts his head and swallows, wiping his mouth with his sleeve in a way that makes the refined part of Harry’s brain shriek in protest. “Good?” Ian’s eyes are sparkling.

Harry gets ahold of the front of his shirt and drags him back up, kissing him fiercely. “Bloody fantastic, and you know it,” he hisses. He works a hand between them and grips at Ian’s crotch, rubbing his hand firmly over the bulge his finds there. “Your turn.”

“Yes please,” Ian murmurs, still grinning infuriatingly.

Without thinking, Harry flips them so he can be on top, and they topple to the floor. Ian bursts out laughing, and then the sound fades out into a long moan as Harry grips him and squeezes firmly. “Fuck,” Ian curses.

Harry bites savagely into his neck, just shy of breaking skin, and growls, “You’re going to be the fucking death of me.”

“And what a way to go,” Ian gasps. He doesn’t make a comment about Harry marking _him_ , and instead goes for his zip. Harry forces his hand away.

“You’re going to come just like this,” Harry informs him. There’s something insanely hot about the idea of making Ian, who had made a point not to ruin his suit last time, come in his pants like a boy half his age.

Ian apparently agrees, because he groans and arches into Harry’s hand encouragingly. “Come on then,” he says, and that is definitely a challenge.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor emotional breakdown.

This time, when Harry wakes up in the morning, he’s not alone in bed.

It doesn’t register at first, and it’s not until he goes to sit up and a low voice groans, “No,” elongating the word several extra syllables, that he realizes he has company. Ian throws an arm over Harry’s waist, tucking his face into Harry’s neck and effectively preventing him from moving.

The previous night is a little hazy, although not because of alcohol. After the first glass of champagne, the bottle had been completely forgotten. Harry’s not entirely sure how or when they made it from the floor to the bedroom, but he distinctly remembers Ian insisting on spooning him. Not that Harry was complaining. Ian hides surprisingly muscular arms - surprisingly muscular _everything_ \- beneath his suits, and Harry feels safe with Ian wrapped around him. It’s a bit concerning, actually.

“Good morning to you too,” Harry says, but he doesn’t try to sit up again. It’s warm and cozy under the blankets. “Sleep well?”

“Like a rock,” Ian mumbles into his shoulder. “Why are you awake?”

“Because it’s morning?”

“Early morning,” Ian complains.

“You woke me up yesterday. Now we’re even.”

Ian opens one eye and peers at him. “Fair enough.” He releases Harry, rolling onto his back and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “Are you going to run away this morning too?”

Harry debates it, but he really can’t be bothered. If he’s going to keep making this bad decision, why keep fighting it? He turns on his side. “I can stay at least a little while, although I can’t promise a repeat performance of last night. You rather wore me out.”

“Believe it or not,” Ian says, turning to face him as well, “the thought of shagging you again hadn’t crossed my mind.” He smiles, and it’s not like his other ones, not playful or overly charming or calculated. It’s soft, just a sweet smile in the dim morning light. His Scottish brogue is even more pronounced like this, rough with sleep, and it’s almost too endearing to bear. It’s almost enough to explain his lapse in judgement.

He repeats the sentiment aloud. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“Did what?”

“Slept with you again.”

“Should I be offended?” Ian’s smile slips back into teasing territory, although there’s something behind his eyes that Harry can’t quite identify.

“You should be flattered. I don’t think I’ve bedded the same person twice, much less two nights in a row, since I slept with Alistair, and that was all the way back at university.”

“You and Alistair?” Ian sounds interested. “I didn’t know you two were a thing. I thought he and James…?”

“They are now. They didn’t even know each other then. And Alistair and I were never serious. We were both just experimenting. We fooled around a few times, determined that it wasn’t just a fluke, we both very much did like men, and that was the end of it. We’ve never really been interested in each other as anything other than friends.”

“Pity. I’d bet a four-way with him and James would be incredible.”

Harry wrinkles his nose at the thought. Once upon a time, maybe, but James and Alistair are so damn domestic with each other that anything of the sort would feel like intruding. Besides, they’re practically family. It’d be a bit too close to incest for his tastes. Ian catches his expression and reassures him, “I was joking. I do a lot of...let’s say _subversive_ things in bed, but I’m a one-partner sort of man. I find adding more people into the mix is just...distracting. I like to focus on one person at a time, give them every bit of my attention.”

It explains why Harry always feels like he’s being picked apart and examined when Ian looks at him. A memory strikes him.“When you say subversive…” He bites his lip, and then asks, “The dresses in your closet. They aren’t Olivia’s, are they?”

Ian shakes his head, watching Harry carefully. “They’re mine. Not just dresses, either. I wasn’t joking about the lipstick.”

Harry’s heard of women wearing men’s clothing, but as far as he’s aware, the other way around is much less common. A feeling of shame, disconnected, almost like deja vu, rushes through him, and he shoves it away, locking it back into a corner of his mind. He tries to figure out a tactful way of asking a half-formed question, and Ian must read it in his face because he says, “I’m a man, Harry. I just like dressing up occasionally. Or dressing up my partner, if he’s interested, although you’d be surprised how often the thought of that scares someone away.”

“From you? I can’t imagine,” Harry says, and means it. Ian is intense, maybe even a bit frightening, but Harry can’t imagine running. He thinks back to what Ian asked him the first night, and comes to the startling conclusion that even two days - or is it three days and two nights? - in, he’d probably do just about anything Ian asked him to. It’s not as distressing a thought as it should be.

“Not everyone is as eager to stay in my bed as you,” Ian teases. “Some of them don’t even stay a full night.” There’s a sort of regretful twist to it, lying beneath the mirth.

“Shame,” Harry says, and it’s both a joke and completely serious. “They’re missing out.”

Ian gives him another soft smile. “So what about you?”

“I’m usually the one leaving other’s beds, not the other way around. I thought I mentioned that the other night.”

“No, I mean about the dresses thing.” Ian is still watching him, and if Harry didn’t know better, he’d say that Ian looks nervous. “You don’t _seem_ to be taking issue to it. But it’s also possible you’re waiting for the earliest opportunity to run screaming. I can’t always read people.”

Harry traces his hand over Ian’s arm, surprising both of them by threading their fingers together. “I’m not going to run away. Not from that.” He may very well run away eventually for some other reason, but he’s confident that won’t be it. “I won’t lie. It’s not something I ever considered before, but I’m...intrigued.” It tastes like a lie, but not for the reason Harry expected.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

There’s silence between them for a moment, and then Ian asks, “Do you want to go out tonight?”

“What?”

Ian sits up. His eyes are shining, and he squeezes Harry’s hand. “Out on the town, Harry. There’s this little up and coming club I found last time I was here. Part of my coming back is to check on it. I could take you tonight. I wouldn’t even ask you to wear a dress.” The last part is clearly a joke, but the rest of it...

Harry sits up too, taking his hand back and toying with the bedspread. “I don’t know. Here it’s one thing. No one’s going to be looking at us here. But out there…”

Ian’s smile falters, and when he corrects it it looks more fake. “You wouldn’t have to come as my date. You could pretend it’s for business.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t exactly look that part to be doing business with someone like you.”

“So let me dress you up. You’re about my size, one of my suits should fit you. It wouldn’t be as good as a bespoke suit, but it’ll do.”

Harry hugs his knees. “I don’t know,” he repeats. He hides his face. “Fuck, what am I even doing here?”

“Taking a risk,” Ian says softly, and Harry looks at him. Ian’s expression is unreadable. “You’ve been hiding for long enough, Harry. You don’t have to flaunt it, but you’re scared of shagging the same man twice because someone might notice. How is that the same man who thought I was going to murder him when we first met, and who came with me anyway? _Live_ a little, Harry. Come out with me tonight.”

Absurdly, Harry hears his mouth say, “Okay.”

Ian smiles.

Hours later, after a repeat of last night Harry hadn’t known he had in him, a lazy cuddle, and a shared shower, Harry finds himself clinging to the memory of that smile as he fidgets with the sleeves of one of Ian’s suits, which sits awkwardly long on his arms thanks to Ian’s broad frame, and shuffles out of a cab. Ian pays the driver and follows him out onto the pavement as Harry looks around. The club Ian referred to doesn’t look like much; as the sun sinks below the horizon, it reflects grimy windows papered over in grey. If it ever had a name, the lettering isn’t visible in all the dirt and dust.

“You’re sure this is the right address?” Harry asks.

Ian is wearing the red suit, and he has no right to look that good in it. He somehow manages to pull off ‘dapper’ rather than ‘eccentric,’ and it’s honestly a bit distracting. “Trust me,” he says. “This is the place. Shall we?” He offers Harry his arm. Harry looks at it for a moment, then back up at Ian, who drops it without a word.

Instead, he leads the way past the door Harry assumed was the entrance and down a flight of stairs. There’s another door down there, tucked well below street level, and over it hangs an etching of a bird - a swallow in flight, Harry thinks. “Are we going in through the basement?” he asks.

Ian laughs. “In a manner of speaking.”

When he pushes open the door,  Harry is immediately assaulted by the noise. There’s a band playing, couples dancing to a popular number that Harry vaguely recognizes. The onslaught of colour is almost garish to his eyes, a muted rainbow of feathers and fringe. “Stay close,” Ian calls to him over the din. “Don’t want you getting lost.”

Harry’s fairly certain he could get lost in this chaos even if he was holding Ian’s hand. He chokes and coughs as a wave of cigarette smoke hits him, and Ian looks back, concerned. Harry waves him off as he adjusts to the smell, and they make their way over to the bar.

“Merlin!” The bartender completely lights up at the sight of them. “Heard you were in town!” His accent is, shockingly, thickly American. Southern, Harry thinks, but he can’t be sure.

“That I am,” Ian grins at him. “It’s been too long. I’ll have the usual, if you can remember it.”

“Course I remember. It ain’t been that long, and besides, it’s what you pay me for. Other than my charming company, of course.” The bartender winks. “And for your lovely companion?” He’s already grabbing a bottle of Scotch, setting to work on Ian’s drink before he can answer for Harry.

“I’m not his companion.” Harry objects less to the word choice and more to the lascivious tone the bartender uses when he says it. So much for playing Ian’s business partner.

The bartender shoot him a playful smile and a flirtatious wink. “Sure you’re not. We get all sorts around here, and half the people Merlin walks in with spend the night in his bed. Hell, I’d bend Merlin over the bar in a heartbeat if he was interested.”

“Your bedside manner needs a great deal of improving before I’d even consider taking you up on that offer,” Ian tells him. To Harry, he says, “Just give the man your drink order and he’ll leave you alone. Tequila’s harmless.”

“Good to know, although I’m not sure I agree,” Harry says. “Personally, I prefer a good martini myself.”

Ian and the bartender both laugh. Ian nods toward him, “That’s Tequila, and yes, everyone calls him that. I will admit, it can get a bit confusing, but far be it from me to tell people what to go by.”

“It ain’t the name my momma gave me,” the man, Tequila apparently, says, and shrugs, “but I’ve been using it most of the time I’ve worked for Merlin, and I reckon it suits me better.” He sets a glass on the bar and asks, “How’d you want your martini?”

When Harry gives him the order, he raises his eyebrows, looks to Ian, and then back to Harry. “So let me get this straight,” he says. “You want a glass of gin?”

Harry blinks. “Yes?”

Tequila whistles. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Merlin.” But he makes the drinks and slides them over. Harry reaches for his wallet, and Ian stops his hand.

“I don’t pay here.”

“Perk of owning a bar,” Tequila nods. “Free drinks.”

“Not free,” Ian says. “But when you pay for them by the barrel, it doesn’t make much sense to pay for it by the glass.” He reaches into his own pocket and draws an envelope out. “I do, however, have this for you.” He passes it to Tequila, who brightens so much Harry’s a little surprised he’s not actually glowing.

“Thank you kindly.” Tequila dips his head, making a gesture as if to tip a hat.

Ian takes Harry’s elbow, the touch just impersonal enough that Harry doesn’t mind it, and steers him away. “I’ve got a private booth back here,” he explains. “It’ll get you away from most of the smoke, but you can still hear the band.”

“He’s American,” Harry says as he slides into the seat Ian indicates.

“Well spotted.” Ian laughs. “Are you really surprised?”

“How does an American end up working for you here, in London? Is he a writer?”

“Soldier, actually.” Ian  takes a sip of his drink. “Not to say people can’t be both, but Tequila’s dyslexic, so reading and writing are hard for him. He’s-”

“Dyslexic?” Harry cuts in.

Ian nods. “Wordblindness? Reading problems that aren’t caused by vision impairment. Rudol Berlin, _Eine besondere Art der Wortblindheit (Dyslexie)_.” His German pronunciation is excellent, and makes Harry wonder if he can do accents beyond just British.

What he says instead is, “You’re a very well-read man.”

Ian shrugs. “I spend a lot of time bored on boats, and I like to know a little bit of everything. Anyway, as I was saying about Tequila, he’s smart. I met him once during the war, just briefly, and then after on business. He’s from Kentucky, and he was looking to get away from the family business, so I offered to set him up on the condition that he worked for me. I’ve never had a better bartender. Started him out in the states, and then after awhile I asked if he’d come over here. He agreed, obviously.”

“Does he know you’re…?”

“Gay?” Ian finishes, raising an eyebrow. “Were you paying attention? Tequila’s seen me pull lads before, and he flirts plenty.”

“No, I know,” Harry says. That hadn’t been subtle. He supposes he should have been clearer with his question. “I mean, does he know you’re Scottish?”

“Oh.” Ian nods. “He does. He and Olivia are some of the only people I work with who do. It’s just them and Ginger now. The letter was from her.”

“Who is she?”

“Tequila’s sweetheart back in the states.”

“I thought you just said he flirted with you?”

“Revist my comment about bisexuals,” Ian says, draining his glass, “and then ask me that again. Besides, Tequila might flirt, but he’s completely gone on Ginger. He’d never actually cheat on her.”

Right. This is still a bit new to Harry. Another thought occurs to him, “Why does he call you Merlin?”

Ian shrugs. “It’s a nickname, like Tequila or Ginger. Her name is actually Elizabeth. Lovely girl. He misses her a lot.”

Harry sits back and sips at his drink, studying Ian discreetly over the rim. Ian catches him looking and stares right back until Harry feels he has to look away. “There’s a lot I don’t know about you,” he says.

Ian chuckles. “You have no idea.” He stands, offering his hand out to Harry, “Care to dance?”

“Are you mad?” Harry asks. “Here?”

“Take a good look around you, Harry. Do you really think anyone will mind?”

Harry looks around the dance floor. There are plenty of pairings, a veritable sea of motion, but he can make out a few key partners that he imagines Ian is referencing. A pair of women in matching dresses, one blue and one green. Two men in suits practically wrapped around each other, swaying completely out of sync with the beat. Other couples like them. No one seems to be paying them much mind, but something twists in Harry’s gut and he looks away.

“I don’t want to dance,” he says.

Ian drops his hand, his face falling. “Right.”

Harry gestures to the floor. “Don’t let me stop you, though.”

Ian leans over the table and murmurs, “The only dance partner I want doesn’t want to dance with me.” It doesn’t sound accusatory, not meant to pin blame or provoke guilt, just a simple statement of fact.

There’s really nothing Harry can say to that. Fortunately, he’s spared having to respond because Tequila steps up behind them and Ian straightens. There’s a slight bite to his voice when he asks, “Shouldn’t you be behind the bar?”

Tequila holds his hands up in surrender, and Ian instantly looks apologetic. Tequila glances at Harry, and then says in a low voice, “Someone’s out back looking for you. Business related. Thought you’d want to know.”

“Business?” Ian asks.

“Jack,” Tequila says simply.

Ian looks back at Harry, who frowns in confusion. “I’ll take care of it,” Ian says to Tequila, without breaking eye contact with Harry. A shiver runs down Harry’s spine, and he suppresses it. Ian looks like he’s considering something, and it’s a darker look than Harry expected. “You don’t mind if I leave you alone for a minute, do you?”

Harry shakes his head, and Ian reaches over and gives his shoulder a squeeze, just shy of too personal, his expression softening to something that doesn’t make Harry’s stomach churn. “I’ll be back in a minute. Tequila, get him another drink, please?”

“Yes sir.” They both make their exit. Tequila returns with another martini, placing it next to Harry’s still half-full glass before taking his rightful place behind the bar again. Harry throws back the rest of the first drink and picks up the second. He watches the couples on the dance floor and wonders what it’d be like to dance with Ian out there, pressed against the other man’s more muscular form. Harry’s really only familiar with the waltz, but Ian has surprised him plenty already. Harry bets he knows how to tango.

The fantasy bursts sharply as the music switches from upbeat to slow and sensual, and Harry tears his eyes away from the dance floor, feeling abruptly too hot and out of breath. He’s fairly confident it’s not from the cigarette smoke still hanging in the air.

He stands sharply and grabs the table to avoid swaying on his feet as the world spins out of time with the twirling couples. His second martini gets abandoned in favour of sucking in lungfuls of air; he’s done this a few times before, most notably after he told his parents the truth, and it’s too much for him to handle. He knows Ian probably won’t want him interrupting a business meeting, but he doesn’t want to just disappear either, especially wearing Ian’s suit, so he heads in the same direction Ian left. He’ll only interrupt for a moment. And anyway, if Ian really is irritated, maybe he won’t want to see Harry again, and that will probably be for the best.

The hallway lets out into an alleyway. It’s dark, the sounds of the city muffling any hints of activity. A cat cries out somewhere in the night, and Harry sympathizes, even if his own lungs are too constricted to allow him any gasp of sound.

“Ian?” Harry calls when he manages to slow his breathing enough for it. He shivers. It’s getting colder, and he should have dressed warmer, but at the time the sun had been shining and he’d been hanging on the warmth of Ian’s attention, of his smile.

The cat howls again, and then is silenced sharply. Harry clutches his arms around himself and looks farther down the alley, and back towards the street. He feels a bit dizzy.

“Harry?”

He leaps what feels about a foot, although he doubts his feet even leave the ground. “Stop sneaking up on me,” he admonishes as Ian emerges from the shadows, although it comes out higher and breathier than normal.

“I apologize,” Ian says. He steps closer, frowning, “Is everything alright?”

Harry doesn’t sniffle, and if he does, it’s just a reaction to the chill. “I want to go home. It’s all a bit much. I just thought I should let you know, since I’m wearing your clothes.”

“Of course, of course,” Ian wraps and arm around Harry’s shoulder and steers him towards the street. “Here, let me walk you.”

Harry shrugs the arm off. The touch is electric, too much and not enough and he really can’t handle it at the moment. “It’s fine, really. I’ll return the suit tomorrow.”

“Harry-”

He shakes his head. “This is your world, Ian. I don’t belong in it.”

“Don’t you?” Ian asks. There’s something odd glittering in his eyes.

“Goodnight, Ian,” Harry says firmly, using the last shreds of his energy. He’s almost surprised that Ian doesn’t chase him out to the street. He hails a taxi and heads for home.

It’s not until he’s stripping down for bed, folding the suit carefully and placing it on his desk chair, that he notices the smear of...something on the shoulder of the suit jacket, where Ian had touched him. It’s dark and brownish-red, probably dirt, possibly blood. Harry dismisses the thought. He’s in a dark enough mood as it is. His throat feels like it’s closing up, making it almost impossible to breathe, and even when he curls up beneath his blankets he can’t stop trembling.

It’s just one piece of the puzzle. One tiny piece of Ian’s life that he’s let Harry into. And it scares the shit out of him. He can’t even fathom going back, even to return the suit.


	6. Chapter 6

“You’re back.” Ian blinks in surprise when he opens the door to Harry. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Harry hadn’t been either. He gestures with the lump of folded fabric in his arms. “Yes, well, I didn’t want you thinking I was a thief. The bellhop already seems to be under that impression as it is.”

Ian waves his concern off, “Charlie is harmless. Just a bit over eager to prove himself, that’s all.” He’s blocking the doorway with his body, like he doesn’t want Harry to see inside, and a shot of hurt lances through Harry as he hears frantic movement behind it. He knows he doesn’t have a monopoly on Ian’s time or attention, but he hadn’t expected him to move on this quickly, and he hates how much that bothers him.

He shoves the suit towards Ian and tries - and fails - not to snap, “Well, I imagine you’re busy with...whoever it is you have in there. Thank you for last night and...well...”

“Harry, wait,” Ian sighs. “It’s not what you think.”

“What business is it of mine?” Harry knows he sounds petulant, but he can’t help it. “That I even stayed with you for two nights-”

Ian throws the door open and drags Harry through it by the wrist. Harry hates himself a bit for the way he immediately looks around, trying to find the man Ian must have brought home. The only apparent occupant of the room, however, is Olivia. She’s sitting on the sofa, hands folded in her lap, looking far too innocent and still considering the flurry of movement he’d heard.

Harry narrows his eyes at Ian as the other man closes the door behind him. “I thought you said you weren’t interested in women?” he asks suspiciously. “Unless by that you meant you were interested in girls.” Olivia...Jesus, she looks to be about the same age as Roxy. Not exactly unconscionable for men their age, but not a good sign either.

Olivia snorts. “Christ, no.”

“I told you, I’m gay,” Ian says. “Not to mention, Olivia is family. She’s here on _business_.”

“Then why…?”

“Because my business is sensitive, and it wouldn’t do to have just anyone poking around in it. After last night-”

“What happened last night?” Harry asks. The bloodstain (dirt, he tells himself, but he’s not sure he believes it) flashes back into his mind. “When you had to leave the club to...deal with something. Are you a gangster?”

Ian laughs at him, and Harry crosses his arms and tries not to look offended. It’s not an unreasonable belief and for Ian to act like it’s a joke just feels patronizing. “I’m not a gangster, Harry,” Ian says, and even though he’s tried to school himself, the mirth trickles into his voice. “I think your head’s filled with one too many fantasies.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve known a few writers. They all like to imagine life is more grand than it is. Believe me, I am not a gangster. I’m a businessman, that’s all.”

“Who does deals at night?”

“Well, if everyone else is doing them during the day, how else am I going to fit into their schedule?”

The fact that he’s so infuriatingly calm as he answers, especially given the nervousness practically radiating off of Olivia, makes Harry want to shout at him. “I’m not an idiot,” he says, keeping his voice steady.

“I never said you were,” Ian says. “I just think you have an overactive imagination. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“If your business isn’t shady, why is it so secret?”

“Are you going to report me?” Ian asks, and even though his demeanor is still calm, there’s a sudden sharpness to his voice. The temperature in the room drops several degrees. “My clients are private people. They don’t like their names to be thrown about. Last I checked, that was not a crime.”

Harry stares at him, then at Olivia, and then looks back to Ian. He realizes how ludicrous he sounds, and he deflates. Maybe he is just imagining things. It wouldn’t be the first time he jumped to a conclusion with only half of the facts. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Ian softens. “You were thinking that this man you just met seems to keep a great deal of secrets. And you’re right. I do. But you’re also a bit paranoid, so you spun it. It happens.”

“I’m not paranoid,” Harry mumbles.

Ian takes a step closer and tilts Harry’s chin up. “You thought I was a serial killer the first time we met.” There’s a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

Harry turns away and ducks his head. “Are you ever going to stop reminding me of that?” It’s embarrassing enough when he remembers it himself, without Ian having to bring it up.

“Why would I when it’s such terrific fun?” Ian teases.

On the sofa, Olivia’s shoulders drop into a more relaxed position. She removes a sheaf of papers from beneath the cushions and clutches them to her chest. As she stands, she says, “I’ll just take this to my room, then. We’ll talk later?”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your business,” Harry says. “I can go. I just wanted to give back the suit.”

Ian looks torn, glancing between the two. He takes a pen out of his pocket and comes up with a piece of paper. He scribbles something on it and hands it to Harry. “I’ll be there tonight. If you feel like seeing me again.”

“I-”

Ian holds his hands up. “I know. Repeat encounters and all that. I just thought I’d ask.” He holds the door open and gestures Harry through.

On the threshold, Harry glances back. “Where exactly is this?” he asks.

“Not a club,” Ian promises him.

“Assuming I come,” Harry begins, “and I’m not saying that I will, what sort of attire would be appropriate?”

Ian smiles. “Come as you are. Nothing too fancy. Promise.”

Harry nods, and then walks through the door. It closes behind him with a snap. In the lobby, Charlie gives him a little glare, and Harry absolutely does not return it.

He doesn’t want to go home just yet. It’s chilly out, and he slips his gloves on to combat it, but the brisk air keeps his head clear and makes his writing hand twitch. There’s something lurking, just beyond his grasp, and if he wanders for a few more minutes he might be able to put it into words.

He stops by Miller’s Treasures on his way. Amelia is leaning over the counter, as usual. “Good morning, Mr. Hart,” she greets him.

“I thought I’d stop by and actually pick up that book,” he tells her.

She reaches under the desk and pulls it out, already wrapped up in paper. “Put it on your tab, or are you paying in cash today?”

“Tab, I’m afraid. Next week my parents send me my allowance. I’ll pay it off then.”

Amelia snorts. “You’re what, edging on forty? Can’t believe you still get an allowance from your parents.”

“I’m not a day over thirty,” Harry snaps, and they’re both lying and they know it. Amelia just likes to wind him up a bit. “Besides, they figure it keeps me out of their hair and away from disgracing the family name.”

“Well, you’re certainly out of the public eye,” Amelia says. “When am I next going to have a great Harry Hart novel gracing my shelves?”

Harry gives her half a shrug and tucks the book under his arm. “I don’t know if I’d call it great, but when it’s finished, you’ll be the first to know,” he promises.

“I’ll bet Roxy is the first to know. She gets all the gossip first.”

“Lurking on a front stoop all day will do that. But I promise, after Roxy, I’ll come right to you.”

“Much appreciated, Mr. Hart.” Amelia smiles at him.

Harry bids her farewell and heads back to his flat. Roxy is not in fact on the front stoop, presumably off at work or with her uncles. He sets the book in his desk drawer, on top of the last volume he purchased, and lifts the butterfly paperweight off the pages he’d been working on. The next scene is starting to take shape in his mind’s eye, and he jots down a few words and crosses them out before Eliza gets the idea and a sentence properly forms.

They’re good pages. He normally writes mystery, so perhaps being presented with a mysterious stranger in his own life is doing him a world of good. He slips in a few more details between the lines, describing a man who absolutely isn’t Ian, but who looks a tiny bit like him. Add hair and glasses, change the outfit a bit. Maybe detailing his jawline isn’t needed…

Harry crinkles up the paper and starts over. He’s fairly certain his publisher won’t want his drool all over the pages, and that’s liable to happen if he doesn’t stop picturing Ian. The hold the other man has over him is alarming, or it should be, but every time Harry wakes up and actually feels alarmed, he turns around and there Ian is again, blinding him with that gorgeous smile and those infuriatingly long legs.

If only he was terribly boring.

Harry’s restless today, so he doesn’t get much farther before his feet are itching to move again, and he shoves the papers in the pockets of his coat and heads back out, his feet taking him to Alistair and James’s flat without a second thought.

When James opens the door, he grins at Harry. There are smudges of brown paint on his cheeks. “Come in!” He beckons with a sweep of his hand that spatters matching brown freckles across Harry’s face. “I’m in the middle of a project, but I can talk.”

James can always talk, Harry doesn’t say, wiping at the paint with the back of his hand. At least, when he glances into the studio, there isn’t a naked model in there. He’s walked in on that a few times. The first time it had happened, he’d gotten the wrong idea, but James isn’t married to his art the way some painters are. He’s completely devoted to Alistair, who doesn’t much care if there are nude models in the flat so long as James isn’t the one taking his clothes off.

While there might not be a nude model, there is in fact a model present. Olivia is settled neatly on a stool, her hands folded in her lap, and James’s canvas has loose lines splashed across it, vaguely resembling her face, but not fully formed yet. She smiles when she sees him. “Hello, Mr. Hart.”

Harry gapes at her before he recovers and says, “Miss March. I thought you and Mr. Grey were…” He trails off, but James isn’t paying attention to him anymore, digging through his paints in search of the next colour he needs. Still. On the off chance James is listening, Harry doesn’t want him asking questions about why Harry knows Ian’s plans for the day.

Olivia grasps the end of the sentence anyway. “We finished not long ago,” she explains. “Roxy rang my room at the hotel to let me know when she gets off work, and she told me to meet her here since she has something to give Mr. Morton anyway. I got here a bit early, and Mr. Spencer asked if he could paint me.”

“James,” the man in question says distractedly. “Mr. Spencer was my father.” This is the extent of what James says about his father. Harry assumes Alistair knows more, but he himself doesn’t have a clue if the man has disowned James, or is dead, or even if the two take regular holidays together.  Although, given James’s tone of voice, he can’t imagine it’s the last one.

“James,” Olivia corrects herself. She uncrosses her legs, kicks them a bit to get the blood flowing, and then crosses them again. “It’s not the first time anyone’s ever painted me,” she says, “but it’s the first time someone’s done it without trying to bed me over it. Or, worse, tried to put the word ‘exotic’ in the title.” She pulls a face, and then smiles sweetly. “But James is lovely, isn’t he? So full of passion for his work, but still down to earth.”

“Well, you can thank my darling husband for that,” James says. He’s back at his easel again, growling in frustration over something or other that isn’t turning out quite right. “Alistair is the one who keeps my feet firmly on the ground.”

“Where they belong,” a voice behind Harry says mildly, and Harry startles. He hadn’t heard Alistair come in. Alistair closes the door behind him and drops a kiss on James’s cheek; it’s a testament to how well they know each other that James automatically turns into the gesture even before Alistair touches him. Alistair releases him back to his painting and turns to Harry. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

“I didn’t expect to come over,” Harry admits. “I’ve been in and out all day, and I just sort of wandered over.”

Alistair hangs up his coat, then asks idly, “What did you think of Ian? How did your talk after dinner go?”

Harry glances at Olivia, who smiles not-at-all-innocently. “Speak freely. Don’t let the fact that he’s my employer sway you.” James stifles a chuckle.

“The talk was interesting,” Harry decides on. “ _He’s_ interesting,” he adds. It’s a safe analysis.

“That he is,” James agrees. Alistair nods.

“Have you met him before?” Harry asks.

“Me?” James asks. “No. I thought I mentioned that?”

He might have, but it’s been a fairly eventful few days.

“He hasn’t been on this side of the ocean in a very long time,” Alistair says. “At least, if he has, he hasn’t told me about it.”

“What’s he doing here now?”

Alistair glances towards Olivia as he answers, “Checking up on business, I assume. Forming new partnerships.”

Olivia gives a vague nod, her smile still set to innocently pleasant. Harry can’t shake the feeling she’s watching him, but every time he looks over she’s looking at James.

“I should go,” Harry says, feeling restless again, cramped into this apartment with the idea of Ian hanging like thick smoke clouds in the air, tightening his lungs again. James vaguely jerks his head Harry’s way, acknowledging he heard him, but he’s too absorbed in his work to do more. Alistair gives him a little nod and goes into the other room.

As Harry makes his way down the steps, he nearly runs into Roxy, who’s hastily tying her hair up as she goes. She yelps, and he steadies her with a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, Harry.”

“Olivia is sitting for James,” he tells her. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Roxy flushes, and Harry feels compelled to add, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

Her expression turns to one of hot anger. “Just because you’re afraid to love someone for more than one night doesn’t mean the rest of us are.”

Harry lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m happy for you,” he says, even though his gut twists uncomfortably. “Truly. Just be careful, won’t you? I don’t want her leaving and breaking your heart.” He means it. Part of his intention may be selfish, but part of it really is for her sake. Loving Olivia is a risk in more than one way for Roxy, and Harry doesn’t want to see her hurt.

“I’ll be fine,” Roxy says. “I’m looking out for myself. Promise.”

“Then off you pop,” he tells her, although his instinct is to urge her the other way. Good intent or otherwise, he doesn’t want to ruin Roxy’s happiness. There are enough strangers in her life telling her to change aspects of herself; Harry doesn’t want her to hear it from a friend. He shoos her upstairs and makes his way down to the pavement.

He fishes the scrap of paper Ian gave him out of his pocket and looks at it. There’s no time on it, just Ian’s promise of ‘evening.’ He can’t believe he’s actually considering going.

Who is he kidding? He’s not considering it. He planned to go the moment the words were out of Ian’s mouth.

The address is one he only vaguely recognizes, a part of town he has little reason to be in since his parents effectively tucked him away from the world. He decides to walk, rather than hailing a cab, because he doesn’t have the money of his youth, and he’d rather save it in case wherever Ian expects to meet him is as upscale as the rest of his establishments. Of course, Ian might always insist on paying, but Harry is not going to take that chance.

He hasn’t bothered dressing up. Ian said to come as he was, and Harry doesn’t care about embarrassing himself anymore. Not in front of this crowd. And if he embarrasses Ian, well, it’s Ian’s fault for not being more conscious of Harry’s dressing habits.

Still. At least he isn’t James.

As the buildings get nicer, he starts to rescind that whole line of thought, but he pushes on, glancing at the address every so often to make certain he’s got it right. Except then he has to stop and pace back and forth a few times to make sure he’s not made a mistake, because the building numbers skip right over where Ian says he should be. There don’t appear to be any basement entrances either.

“Hello.”

Harry turns at the sound of Ian’s soft voice. Everything about him is surprisingly soft, from his smile (no teeth, no playful quirks of the lip) to the cut and colour of his suit (a faded, plain grey rather than starker black or patterned) to his posture (shoulders slightly hunched, his hands slipped into his pockets). Harry really wants to reach out and touch him, wondering if he feels as soft as he looks.

“Hello,” he responds.

“I was hoping you’d come, but I didn’t expect you to beat me here.”

Harry shrugs. “I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to walk.” It’s technically a partial truth, but he doesn’t want to tell Ian that the other part was because he couldn’t stay away.

Ian offers Harry his arm, and Harry shies away, glancing around the street. It’s empty, but that doesn’t mean people aren’t twitching curtains, peering out at them. Ian smiles gently in understanding and drops his arm, beckoning with a tilt of his head for Harry to follow him. “This way.”

“Where are we going?”

“The street numbers are a little strange here,” Ian explains. “We have to go around.” He leads Harry into an alleyway he hadn’t noticed before, and down a flight of steps there’s a little Italian restaurant tucked away, gleaming with white lights and candles. The word ‘Tristan’s’ is written in looping white font above the front window.

“What is it with you and basements?” Harry asks, unable to stop the tease from bubbling to his lips.

Ian chuckles. “I don’t know. I suppose I like it better underground. Fewer prying eyes.” He holds open the door and Harry steps in.

“Tristan, table for two please?” Ian asks the older gentleman behind the counter, and the man lights up. Harry’s starting to wonder if anyone doesn’t look abruptly happier the moment they notice Ian is in the room.

Tristan strides out from behind the counter with more energy that Harry thought possible of a man his age. He claps Ian on the back, then pulls him into a tight hug. Releasing him, he says, “For you, always my best table.” He leads them towards the back of the restaurant. There are only a handful of diners, most near Tristan’s age, although there is one young couple curled up in a booth together. Harry is about to ask how far back the table is before they turn a little corner and he sees the large window taking up most of the back wall. Behind it, thick foliage grows up the walls, and he can just make out the shape of beating wings. His breath catches in his throat, so he doesn’t even notice or complain when Ian pulls out his chair for him, just sits down and leans closer to the window, trying to get a better look out into the courtyard.

Tristan lights a candle in the middle of the table as Ian takes his seat, and Harry turns to the other man. “What is this place?”

“I knew Tristain when I was a lad,” he says, and Harry realizes that Ian hasn’t used a hint of the false accent. “When we first met, I told you that I hadn’t exactly grown up in England. I was sixteen when I came here, not really a child anymore but not an adult yet either. I was alone, in desperate need of a job, and Tristan helped me. Let me work for him even though I had no work papers, no references. Even though I was just a schemie from the north.” He looks down, his lips pursing into a thin line, and Harry is hit with the urge to kiss his frown away. After a moment, the look disappears, replaced by his gentle smile again, and Ian continues, “I bussed tables, swept, that sort of thing. Tended the garden.” He gestures out the window. “He paid me for it, and let me sleep here until I could afford a place of my own. I still come back when I can, make sure he’s doing alright.”

“So this isn’t one of your places, then?”

Ian laughs. “I suppose it depends on your definition of ‘mine.’ I don’t own it. Tristan won’t even let me help him pay the bills, stubborn old man. But I’ve always found this place to be the closest thing I have in London to a home.” His hand is resting on the table between them. Harry glances around. Tucked away as they are, no one can see them, so he chances it and reaches out, covering Ian’s hand with his own.

Ian looks up at him, startled. “It’s lovely,” Harry tells him. “Thank you for asking me here.”

“I wanted to show you that not everything has to be secrets between us. I wanted to share this part of myself with you.”

That’s...too much. Harry pulls his hand back and studies the checked tablecloth. Ian’s face falls. “You didn’t have to do this,” Harry says.

“I know.” Jesus, the sincerity on Ian’s face is going to kill him. “I thought, after last night, that you might want to know I’m not all show. There’s some substance to me too.”

“I’ll say,” Harry attempts to joke, but it falls flat. He tries again, more serious, “I never thought you were just show, Ian. That’s what scares me the most.”

Ian’s brow creases. “Why does that scare you?”

“Because if you were just...nice suits and jokes and clubs and nothing underneath, then it’s not a problem.” He looks around again and lowers his voice. “If that’s all there is, then I keep crawling back to you against my best intentions for no other reason than because I like your cock. But if there’s more, if there’s…” he makes a vague gestures that encompases the restuarant, the garden outside, Ian himself, “then I might actually…”

“You might actually what?” The light shining in Ian’s eyes isn’t calculating or dark or anything Harry’s come to expect. It’s pure and open and hopeful, and it hurts to look at, so Harry doesn’t. There’s a spot on the tablecloth, probably pasta sauce, that deserves his attention.

“I might actually want to be with you,” he finishes.

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

“Yes!” It explode out of Harry just as Tristain rounds the corner again, and the older man looks taken aback. He has two plates with him, one slathered in a red sauce and the other in white, some sort of oyster thing and chicken respectively. Harry doesn’t know if Ian gave their order without him noticing or if Tristan does this with all his customers. Either way, the old man carefully sets a plate down in front of each of them, pours two glasses of wine that Harry also doesn’t remember ordering, and backs away again. When he’s gone, Harry leans toward Ian and whispers, “Of course it’s a bad thing. I told you, that I spent even two nights with you-”

“Three,” Ian interrupts him. “Or two and a half.”

“-is completely out of character for me,” Harry continues as if Ian hadn’t spoken. “I can’t keep seeing you, I’ll get attached, and then you’ll leave, or worse, you’ll _stay_.”

“Harry.”

Harry stares at Ian’s hand covering his own, balled into a fist on the table. He looks up, and Ian looks so damn earnest. “There are worse things in life than risking falling in love.”

“Who said anything about love?” Harry mumbles, but he doesn’t take his hand back.

Ian’s lips quirk into a little smile again, “Fair enough. But come on, Harry. If nothing else, I think you could use a bit of adventure in your life.”

Nonsensically, Harry’s lips curl into a smile too. “And that’s what you are, are you? An adventure?”

“Aye,” Ian grins broadly at him. “I promise you, Harry Hart, I am probably the biggest adventure you’ll ever embark on.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Harry says. He picks up his glass of wine and clinks it against Ian’s, and then tosses half of it back in one go. He has a feeling he’s going to need it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for discussions of consent in reference to Harry's past experiences.

Harry is only slightly tipsy as he falls onto Ian’s bed, giggling as he bounces against the mattress. Alright, perhaps a bit more than slightly, but he’s definitely not drunk. Or maybe he is drunk; he did have quite a bit of wine, after all, and everything is pleasantly fuzzy. He’s certainly not complaining.

Ian collapses on top of him, although he kindly doesn’t squash Harry, bracing himself up with his distractingly muscular forearms. Harry thinks idly about running his tongue along the divots in the muscle, tracing the visible strength of Ian’s arms, but he’s distracted from that train of thought when Ian grins at him and rubs his nose against Harry’s. “You’re so damn pretty, you know that?” Ian tells him. He pecks Harry’s lips once, then again. “Your lips should be illegal.”

“Your lips are illegal,” Harry retorts, reaching up to bat at Ian lightly. He covers his face with one hand.

“Hey!” Ian complains, “Not fair.” He ducks his head and presses kisses along Harry’s neck instead, murmuring against the skin, “You’re too pretty to hide your face.”

“I’m not pretty!” Harry protests weakly. “I’m manly.” He snickers at the way it comes out, high-pitched and whiny.

“Oh, I know,” Ian tells him, biting down playfully. His own voice rumbles far deeper than Harry’s, and the combination of it all makes Harry’s cock twitch briefly in interest.

Instead of pursuing that, Harry whacks Ian again. “ _Ian_. No marks.”

“Still?” Ian clicks his tongue. “That doesn’t seem very fair.”

Harry places both hands on Ian’s chest, not pushing him away, just steadying himself. “We’re drunk,” he says intelligently. He giggles again.

“Mmm, little bit,” Ian agrees, laughing too.

“Is that how you get people to come home with you? Get them drunk?”

“You weren’t drunk the other times you came over,” Ian points out. He nibbles thoughtfully on Harry’s ear. “Maybe the first time.”

Harry strokes a hand over Ian’s shoulders. His eyes flutter shut, and he admits, “No. Wasn’t drunk. Was you. You look…” He hiccups, grinning like an idiot. “ _You’re_ the pretty one. And you want to put me in a dress!”

Ian sits up, and Harry lets out a sound of protest at the loss of Ian’s warm body. “You’re still thinking about that?” Ian asks, and there’s a note of wonder in his voice.

“‘Course.” Harry stretches his arms out over his head, wondering what it would take to coax Ian back down to him. “‘S not a bad thought.” There’s something prodding at him, a reminder of something, but the thought is elusive, and it dances beyond his reach.

Ian smiles. “No?”

Harry shakes his head. “Or you in a dress,” he admits. “At first I wasn’t sure, thought it might be weird, but you look... _so good..._ in _everything_. You could wear a burlap sack, and I’d think you looked fetching.”

Ian laughs. “I think you’re a little _too_ drunk, Harry.”

“Am not!” He pouts. “I didn’t have any more than you did.” He thinks. He stopped counting after the first few glasses.

“No, but apparently I can hold my liquor better,” Ian teases.

“Fff. It was wine.” Harry waves a dismissive hand in Ian’s direction. “Come back here. Let me cuddle you.”

Ian obliges, coming back to lay on his side next to Harry, who snuggles into his chest. “You’re warm,” he mumbles. He scratches his fingers lightly over the material of Ian’s shirt. “You know if you need to conserve body heat, skin contact is the best?”

“Is it?” Ian sounds vaguely amused, rumbling somewhere over Harry’s head like a gentle thunderstorm. His heart beats like rainfall against Harry’s ear.

“Mmhm.” Harry looks up, and Ian is watching him. “Read that somewhere. It’s interesting, don’t you think?”

“Is that your way of asking me to take my shirt off?”

Harry nods, pleased Ian got the hint. But then Ian sits up, and Harry promptly tugs him back down. “No. Stay.”

“How do you propose I take my shirt off with you clinging to me like this, hmm?”

Harry flicks open the top button, or tries to. It’s harder than it looks, his fingers fumbling, unable to get a purchase on the little disk. He looks mournfully up at Ian. “My fingers are broken.”

Ian laughs and catches Harry’s hand in his, pressing a kiss to each fingertip. “Better?” he asks. There’s mirth in his voice, and Harry frowns, trying to suss out if Ian is making fun of him.

He decides it doesn’t matter and tries the button again. His brow furrows with concentration, but he gets it in the end, crowing at his success. Ian helps him with the rest of the buttons, and manages to shrug out of his shirt without too much fuss. “Happy?”

Harry sighs contentedly and rests his cheek against Ian’s bare chest. His heartbeat is louder like this, a soothing rhythm to Harry’s fuzzy brain. Ian’s fingers card gently through his hair, and he whispers, “Go to sleep, Harry Hart.”

“Are you doin’ a spell on me?” Harry asks sleepily.

“A spell?”

“Every time you say my name, my full name, I _have_ to do what you say,” Harry informs him, although he’s not sure how slurred the words come out. “I can’t not. Stupid magic Merlin spell.”

“Well then,” Ian sounds amused, and he tucks his mouth against Harry’s temple and whispers, “Fall in love with me, Harry Hart.”

Harry hardly registers the words. He’s already halfway asleep.

When he wakes up again, his mouth tastes like cotton and his head is throbbing. He tries to open his eyes and immediately slams them shut again. The curtains are still drawn, so there’s hardly any light coming into the hotel room, but it’s still too much. Even through his eyelids it hurts, and he presses his face into the pillow and groans in complaint.

Except it’s not actually a pillow; it’s warm and moving, and Harry slides his hand up it without opening his eyes, trying to figure out what it is. His brain only kicks in and gets a clue when he hears a soft chuckle and feels the scratchy stubble of Ian’s jawline. He snatches his hand back to his chest, but doesn’t roll away, tilting his head up to squint at his bedpartner.

Ian’s eyes are still closed, but he seems to know Harry is watching him anyway, because he asks, “How are you feeling?”

Harry winces. Ian hadn’t spoken loudly, but even his morning-soft voice makes Harry feel like his eardrums are melting. He can’t remember the last time he drank this much, but the pain is a sharp reminder of why he doesn’t do it often. “Shh,” he hisses. “How the hell do you not have a hangover?”

 Ian blinks his eyes open lazily and looks down at Harry. “Told you last night. I’ve got a better tolerance for alcohol.”

Harry casts around for the memory of last night and comes up mostly empty. He remembers the restaurant, sharing a bottle of wine (two bottles? Three? The number is a little fuzzy) with Ian, coming back to the hotel and falling into bed with him, but the details of everything after that are burry and indistinct. “Did we have sex?” he asks. He’s still fully clothed - actually, so is Ian, minus the shirt, now that he thinks about it - but that doesn’t mean nothing happened.

“Well, you were a bit out of it, so...”

“So what?” Harry asks. He’s had a couple shags he didn’t remember the next morning. Although, given how good Ian is in bed, he’ll be a little disappointed if something did happen and slipped his mind.

Ian frowns at him and lifts an eyebrow. “So we didn’t do anything. Cuddled a bit. That’s it.”

“Why not?”

Ian looks like he doesn’t understand the question. “You were drunk.”

“And?” Harry says. “I thought we agreed last night that we were going to try...whatever this is.” He waves a hand between them. He can’t saying the words dating or relationship or anything like that. Not yet. He needs a little more time to wrap his head around it.

“We did. But I wasn’t about to take advantage of you.”

Take advantage of him? Harry snorts. “I’m pretty sure once I said yes the first time, it was an open invitation.” He may be relatively new to the idea of repeating partners, but he likes sex with Ian, and it’s not like he’s going to say no.

It startles him that Ian looks genuinely concerned by that. “What?”

“Your concept of consent is worrying.”

Harry blinks at him. “Beg your pardon?”

Ian props himself up on an elbow, and Harry shifts position to match. “You can’t say yes if you’re drunk. You’re not in your right mind. And just because you said yes to me once doesn’t mean that gives me permission to have sex with you whenever I want. I’d feel awful if we did anything and it turned out you weren’t really into it, you were just going along with it because you were drunk or you thought I wanted to or something.”

Harry rolls onto his back and considers that, staring up at the ceiling. “Huh,” is what he finally says.

Ian still looks uneasy. “Harry?”

Harry smiles at him. “No, it makes sense. I just hadn’t thought of it like that before.” In terms of sex, Harry has always accepted that he’ll take what he can get when he can get it. He’s never gone home with someone when he wasn’t looking to get laid, and given his tendency to leave afterwards, he’s never been in a situation where anyone wanted more than he was willing to give.

“So, you haven’t…” Harry isn’t sure if he likes Ian trying to be delicate. He likes it when Ian is blunt, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

“I’ve certainly had disappointing sex,” he says. “But never sex that I’ve regretted or felt was nonconsensual.”

It seems to reassure Ian, at any rate. He strokes a hand idly over Harry’s stomach, tucking him a little closer. Harry leans his head against Ian’s shoulder. “So. Since you seem to remember last night a great deal better than I do, what horribly embarrassing things did I say to you?”

Ian laughs. “I don’t think you said anything embarrassing, love. Although you were rather adamant that I could wear a potato sack and still look good.”

Harry snorts. “I’d believe it, although I’m not sure why it would have come up.”

“You were talking about getting me in a dress.”

“Was I?” Harry bites his lip. He can’t deny the thought has crossed his mind once or twice in the past few days. Ian is just so...undeniably masculine. The thought of his contrasting that by wearing something _pretty_...well, it’s a good thought.

“You were.” Ian is watching him carefully, and Harry remembers what Ian said about his partners’ reactions when he first brought up crossdressing.

Harry reaches over to stroke Ian’s cheek, enjoying the prickle of stubble under his fingers. “Can you blame me?” he asks softly. “You’ve certainly got the legs for it.”

Ian blinks, and then grins. “You should see me in a garter belt and stockings.”

Harry’s mouth goes dry. “So it’s not just the dresses, then. You really go all out?”

“Well, I already knew how to wear garters anyway.” At Harry’s questioning look, he adds, “Scottish military regalia. Not as sexy, but apparently some lads go mad for a man in a kilt.” Harry does _not_ tell him that he’d count himself among them. Ian has enough of a hold over him already. Ian continues, “Anyway, I figure if you’re going to do something, do it right. And men’s underclothes don’t really look right with a dress.”

“Can I see?”

“What, now?”

Harry shrugs to hide the fact that he is very _, very_ interested and the tiniest bit aroused by the thought. “If you want.”

“You’re something special, Harry Hart,” Ian tells him. “Stay here.” He stands up, and Harry flops back against the bed as Ian moves around the room, collecting pieces. He shoots Harry a wink before stepping into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked.

Still staring up at the ceiling, Harry informs him, “I’m really not.”

“Not what?” Ian calls back, his voice echoing slightly in the tiled room. Harry can hear fabric rustling.

“Special,” Harry clarifies. “I’m entirely unremarkable.”

“I beg to differ. I’ve never met a man like you.”

“A hopeless writer trying desperately to hide everything about him that’s real from the world?”

“A hopeful writer trying to have what he wants, but afraid to hold onto it. A man who’s passionate but feels he has to hide his passion.” Harry turns onto his side when he hears the door open again, and Ian leans against the doorframe. He’s not intentionally striking a pose, but Harry can’t help feeling that he belongs on the cover of a magazine. “What do you think?”

Harry has to physically shut his mouth. Ian’s calves flex, beautifully encased in sheer black stockings that reach over his knee, held up by a matching garter belt leading to black lace panties that do very little to hide the length of his cock, even soft as it is. Harry traces his eyes up, over the old-fashioned corset, also black but trimmed with midnight blue lace, narrowing Ian’s waist and rounding out his chest, finally landing on Ian’s face. His lips are painted wine-dark, a purple-red darkened further by the flash of his white teeth as he gives Harry a shy smile.

Harry squirms and sits up, slipping a hand beneath the blanket and grinding the heel of it against his rapidly swelling erection without a thought. It takes him a minute to remember how to use actual words. “You look…” He sounds utterly breathless, even to his own ears.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Ian strides across the room and shoves the blankets back off Harry, straddling him easily. Harry’s cock throbs at the proximity, but he manages to ignore it in favour of lifting his hands to Ian's chest, tracing down the corset thread lines with curious fingers.

“This is gorgeous,” Harry murmurs. “Where did you get it?”

“New York.” Ian casually curls a possessive hand around the back of Harry's neck, toying with the short curls there. “London isn't the only place with tailor shops, you know.”

“I didn't know tailor shops in London even did this sort of thing. Although, to be fair, it has been a long while since I've frequented that sort of establishment.”

“It depends on the place you go,” Ian admits. “Luckily, I've got good connections.”

“And no one questions that you're a man looking to buy…?” Harry’s gaze flicks down to the tops of Ian's thighs, carefully diverting his gaze from the panties.

“I know some very discreet people. And it's more common than you might think.”

“I didn't think even women still wore this sort of underwear. Everything is so much less form-fitting these days.”

“How would you know?” Ian teases. “When's the last time you saw a woman in her underwear?”

Harry thinks back on it and shudders. “Probably my mother. I was ten. Came home early from school and walked in on my parents having sex in the drawing room. I had nightmares for weeks.”

Ian laughs. “Poor baby,” he coos, stroking Harry's hair. He leans closer and kisses just under Harry's ear, sucking gently, and Harry moans.

Ian takes one of Harry's hands where it still lingers on his chest and slides it down his stomach, stopping just shy of the top of the lacy panties, starting to bulge as Ian's cock slowly thickens. “Come on,” he coaxes. “You want to touch, I know you do.”

Hesitantly, Harry pets over the lace. It's so soft under his fingers, emphasizing the hardness beneath, and Ian groans as Harry strokes more firmly, arching his hips slightly into Harry's hand. He presses closer to Harry, sucking kisses into his neck just shy of bruising.

The phone rings, and they both groan in unison. “Ignore it?” Harry suggests.

“I can't,” Ian says, sounding disappointed. “It might be work.” He leans over Harry, stretching out and plucking the handset off the receiver. Then he settles comfortably on top of Harry and answers, “Ian Grey speaking.”

Harry watches him. He can't hear the other half of the conversation, but he can see the dozen different expressions that flicker across the man's face, finally settling on vaguely frustrated. “Yes, I understand.” His eyes flick down to Harry, and then away again. “I'll be down shortly. Thank you, Olivia.” He hangs up and sighs.

“Duty calls?”

“Unfortunately.” Ian presses a kiss to Harry's cheek and swings off him, moving to the closet, hangers clicking as he picks through the suits.

Harry props himself up. “What about tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“What are you doing tonight?”

Ian gives him a pleasantly surprised look. “I've got one meeting, but it's just to close the deal, so it shouldn't take long. Why?”

“I thought we could do something,” Harry suggests. “Maybe I'll show you a bit of my world this time.”

“Your world?” Ian sounds amused.

Harry waves a hand at him. “You know what I mean. You're...cultured. Worldly. You go out and you know people and it's all very...social.”

“You're not social?”

Harry pauses and then admits, “Not really.” He shifts, getting to his feet and stretching, avoiding Ian's gaze. “It was just an idea.”

“Hey.” Ian abandons the closet, stepping into Harry’s space and tilting his chin up with a gentle hand. “It's a good idea. Why don't you give me your address, and I'll meet you there?”

Harry swallows hard. He knows he initiated it, but inviting Ian to his flat is still a big step. It's personal. It makes this real.

Ian sees his hesitation and withdraws his touch, taking a step back. Harry grabs him quickly by the wrist, drawing him back and wrapping his arms around him. “We can do that,” he says. He leans his forehead against Ian's and gives him a shy smile. “Roxy will give me all sorts of hell if she sees me invite you in.”

“And she’ll find out because…?”

“She haunts my stoop.”

“Ah.” Ian grins. “I see. Well, I’ll try not to scandalize your neighbours too much.”

“Much appreciated.” Harry allows Ian to untangle himself from his arms so he can actually pick out a suit and begin dressing. “You’re really not going to change out of that?”

Ian pauses, halfway through buttoning his shirt over the corset. He looks down, and then up at Harry. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry registers that his lipstick is smeared at the corners. “Do you think I should?”

Harry shrugs. As hot as Ian is like this, the thought of him wearing all that lace under his suit is an even bigger turn on. But, “Surely it can’t be comfortable?”

“A well-fitting corset should be as comfortable as a bespoke suit. As for the rest, well, it feels a lot nicer than cotton.” He's watching Harry, and there’s a hint of a smirk on his lips.

“What?” Harry asks.

Ian gestures towards Harry’s neck. “You might want to take care of that before you go out. People might talk.”

Harry frowns, and then goes into the bathroom. Reflected back in the mirror, he can see why Ian’s lipstick was smudged. There are lip prints on the side of his face and neck, visible marks of Ian’s kisses.

Ian appears over his shoulder, reaching around him for a cloth to clean the remainder of the lipstick from his lips. “Normally when I do my face, I do the works, but I wasn’t sure I’d have time. I did, however, think lipstick might be a good workaround of your ‘no marks’ policy.” Ian gives him a look in the mirror that tells Harry just how stupid he thinks that rule is.

Harry cleans his face, or tries to, scrubbing at the marks to no avail, until Ian turns him, pressing him against the sink, and takes over. “Thank you,” Harry says. “I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with this.”

Ian gives him a smile. “I know.” He sets the cloth down and cups Harry’s cheek, tilting Harry’s head to better expose his neck, checking that he’s gotten it all. Then he slides the hand back into Harry’s hair, fingernails scratching gently. “There. All good.”

Now that Ian’s lips are free of makeup, Harry kisses him softly, and Ian melts into him, the hand in his hair tightening slightly. Harry pulls away and murmurs, “Let me just write down my address for you, and then I’ll be out of your hair.” Ian raises an eyebrow, and Harry amends, “Or lack thereof.”

He steps back out of the bathroom, tracking down the paper on the nightstand and scribbling his address. Ian follows him out, doing up his trousers and sitting on the bed to pull his shoes on. “Tonight, then?”

“Tonight,” Harry agrees, biting back the nervousness that swells again at the thought. He drops on last kiss on Ian’s cheek and heads out.

He makes it to the lobby before he remembers his coat. Charlie gives him a nasty look when he steps back into the elevator, but Harry ignores him. He’s not sure what Charlie’s problem with him is, but he’s starting to become numb to it.

When he renters the suite, Ian turns to look at him, shoving a hand into his pocket, and if Harry didn’t know better he’d swear Ian looked guilty. “Forgot my coat,” Harry tells him. “Have you seen it?”

Ian lifts it into Harry’s line of vision and then hands it over. “I was just about to bring it down to you.”

Harry slides it on and Ian takes him by the lapels, tugging him into another kiss. “Last one,” Harry insists, freeing himself.

Ian pouts, but Harry stands firm. He will not be swayed. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asks pointedly, and Ian sighs.

“I’ll walk you out.”

Now that Ian is with him, Charlie pointedly does not look at either of them. Olivia is waiting for them just outside, and she smiles at Harry. “Mr. Hart. Good to see you again.”

“Miss March.” Harry inclines his head. He gives Ian a smile. “I’ll see you tonight.”

As he walks away, he hears Olivia whisper to Ian, “Tonight?” It’s followed by a soft, fond laugh from Ian.

“I’ll tell you on the way,” he says, and then starts to say something else, but Harry is already too far away to hear it clearly.


	8. Chapter 8

When Harry steps into his flat, he’s struck abruptly by how messy he’s kept things. It’s not bad for someone living on their own, but Ian’s used to his fancy hotel, and if Harry can’t offer him that then the least he can do is make sure his flat is clean and presentable. He changes into more comfortable clothes, better suited for cleaning than a suit, and then starts by tackling the dishes in the sink, moves on to straightening up the dirty clothes strewn across his floor, and ends at his desk, shoving as many of the papers as he can into the top drawer. He reaches into his coat pocket, remembering the papers he stashed there the day before, and a shot of panic goes through him. The papers are missing.

“It’s okay,” he tells himself aloud. “You don’t need them. You weren’t sure you were going to use them anyway.” But the idea that any of his writing is out there, to be picked up by any random passerby, churns in his gut, making him feel sick.

He debates hiding his butterflies away, aware that they are, as Roxy told him once, ‘one of the most off-putting things you could find in someone’s home.’ Before he can decide, he’s interrupted by shouting below his window. Roxy is positively whooping, calling up to him, “Harry! Visitor for you!”

Harry forgets about the butterflies and pokes his head out the window. Ian grins up at him, dwarfing Roxy, who is all but bouncing on her heels beside him. He shuts the window and heads down. Ian is waiting patiently, and he holds up a paper bag when Harry joins them. “I know you didn’t specify what we were doing, but I thought I’d bring dessert anyway. I considered bringing wine, but after last night, I thought foregoing alcohol might be better.”

Harry flushes at the thoughtful gesture, although the British accent rankles him. He can’t make himself meet Roxy’s eyes, and he gestures Ian to head past him upstairs. When he does manage to look up at Roxy, behind Ian’s back, she gives Harry a thumbs up and mouths, “Nice catch. He’s hot.”

Harry gives her a look, even as his blush deepens, and he follows Ian upstairs, catching up to him on the landing. “This is me,” he tells him. “The door’s unlocked.”

Ian steps inside, looking around, and Harry feels abruptly self-conscious. “I know it’s not the sort of place you’d normally stay, but-“

Ian turns and puts a finger over his lips, effectively silencing Harry. “Give me the tour?” he asks, sliding easily back into his normal accent, and he sounds genuinely interested.

Harry ducks his head. “Well, there’s really not much to see. My kitchen is through there, bathroom over there, my writing desk here, and my bedroom all the way in the back.” He gestures to each area as he mentions it. His flat looks even smaller with Ian standing in the middle of it, looking around, appraising everything.

“It’s nice,” is not what Harry expects him to say, but it’s what comes out of Ian’s mouth. Ian strides over to the desk, running his hand along the wood. He turns and leans against it, stretching his legs out. “I honestly thought it might be a little more…messy? Eclectic?” At Harry’s frown, he adds, “Not in a bad way. I told you, I’ve met a couple writers before. Usually their flats match their personalities. A bit eccentric, and a bit all over the place.”

“Well, I cleaned,” Harry says awkwardly. Apparently Ian hasn't noticed the butterflies yet.

Ian beckons him over, and Harry gives in to the pull, stepping between Ian’s legs. Ian takes both of his hands, threading their fingers together, and brings the Harry’s knuckles to his lips to kiss them. “You don’t have to try to impress me.”

“I’m not trying to impress you,” Harry lies. Ian arches an eyebrow, and Harry deflates, leaning into him. “Alright, maybe I am trying to impress you. Just a little bit. You’re an intimidating man.”

“Am I?” Ian cocks his head, looking amused.

Harry nods. “I just didn’t want to disappoint you. There’s not as much to me as you seem to think, and-”

“There is exactly as much of you as I think,” Ian interrupts. “I’m interested in you, Harry Hart. Not whoever it is you seem to think I want you to be. Just you. Do you think you could do that for me? Just be yourself?”

Harry hunches his shoulders, ducking his chin, but he nods. “I could try.”

“We’re behind closed doors here. Just you and me. Nothing to be afraid of.”

There’s still a hell of a lot to be afraid of, but Harry allows himself to be lulled by the intimacy of the moment. Ian presses a kiss to his forehead, then to his lips. “Alright. Showing me your non-social world. What does our evening entail?”

“Well, first of all, I think we should get you out of that suit. It’s not that you don’t look good, but-”

Ian grins. “You just had to ask.” He shrugs off his suit jacket and undoes first his waistcoat buttons, then the ones on his shirt, with the speed of a man used to dressing and undressing quickly. Harry feels his cheeks burn as the shirt parts and the corset comes into view. Ian discards his clothes on the desk, reaching for the button on his trousers, and Harry covers his hand.

“I meant putting on a jumper instead, not stripping down to your underclothes,” he says, although he can’t seem to force his eyes away from Ian’s chest, nor his hand away from Ian’s lap. “I can’t believe you’re still wearing this.”

“Well, I haven’t had a chance to change yet, and I thought you might like another opportunity to appreciate it properly.” Ian smirks at him, and the hand underneath Harry’s slips out and pushes down gently on top of it, grinding Harry’s palm gentle against his crotch. Harry snatches his hand back, cheeks burning for some reason he can’t explain.

“Maybe later,” he manages. “For now, please stop distracting me and put a shirt on.”

“I like you distracted,” Ian teases. “Besides, I don’t have-”

Harry tugs off his jumper, leaving him in just the button-down beneath, and hands it to Ian, who looks down at it and then back up at Harry. “That’ll work.”

It’s both a bit too long for him and a bit too snug; even though they’re the same height, Ian is mostly leg - it’s infuriatingly distracting - and his shoulders are broader than Harry’s. The wool is thick and grey so it obscures the colour, but if Harry looks closely he can see the outline of the corset underneath. It’s subtle enough that if someone wasn’t specifically looking for it, they wouldn’t be able to tell what Ian is wearing under his clothes, and it’s simultaneously relieving and disappointing.

Harry does not run his hand down Ian’s chest to see if he can feel the patterns beneath the jumper. He’s smoothing out a wrinkle, that’s all.

“Alright,” Ian says. “I’m wearing a jumper. Now what?”

Harry holds out his hand and pulls Ian off the desk. “We’re going out.”

“Where?”

Harry gives him a shy, crooked smile. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Ian grins back and allows himself to be pulled from the flat.

Roxy is still lurking at the bottom of the steps, and she leers playfully at them as they pass. “Have a nice time, boys,” she calls after them.

“I’ll have him home before ten,” Ian teases back, and Roxy laughs, the sound fading out as they make their way down the street.

Amelia looks up in surprise when the bell over her door rings. “I know it’s late,” Harry apologizes. “We won’t be long.”

Amelia glances at Ian, who has his hands in his pockets and is looking around with interest, and then back at Harry. “Who’s your friend?”

“Remember Alistair’s friend? The one from America?” Harry gestures towards Ian. “This is him.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss…?” Ian extends a hand.

“Miller. Like the name on the door. Amelia Miller.” She takes Ian’s hand and shakes it. “And you?”

“Ian Grey. It seems we have a few mutual friends.”

“So we do.” Amelia smiles. “I was under the impression you were going to be American, not British.”

Ian winks at her. “I’m full of surprises.” He gestures farther into the shop. “Do you mind if…?”

“Not at all!” Amelia says. “That’s what it’s there for.” Ian gives her a nod and a smile and wanders off into the shelves. Amelia leans closer to Harry, and whispers, “Alright, what’s he doing here?”

“Browsing.”.

She gives him a look. “I mean, what is he doing here _with you_? Are you and he…?”

Harry studies the counter. With some effort, he manages, “We’re something.”

Amelia’s reaction surprises him. “Good for you,” she says approvingly.

“Really?”

“Harry, I don’t think, in the entire time that I’ve known you, you’ve managed to attach yourself to anyone for more than one night. You spend most of your days locked up in your room, alone. That’s a lonely way to live. And he seems nice, and he’s not half-bad looking either.”

“He’s fucking gorgeous,” Harry groans, forgetting himself for a moment, and Amelia laughs.

“Are you whispering about me?” Ian pops his head back out of the shelves.

“No,” Amelia says believably. “I was just telling Mr. Hart that I was going to close up, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you need.”

“That’s very kind of you. You don’t have to do that, we can get out of your hair.”

Amelia waves him off. “Old friends get special treatment, and Harry’s the oldest friend I have.” She puts emphasis on the old, and Ian chuckles while Harry shoots her an affronted look. She comes out from behind the desk and starts to tidy up. “Don’t mind me,” she tells Harry with a pointed jerk of her head towards Ian, who has returned to perusing the shelves.

“Thank you,” he whispers, planting a kiss on her cheek. “You are an angel.”

“Don’t I know it?” She smirks, and jabs him with a broom handle.

Harry gets the hint, dodging out of her way. Ian is poking through the theatre section idly. “You like plays?” Harry asks.

“Love them. For a while, when I was a wee lad, I wanted to be an actor. Now I just play the parts, but I don’t get the stage or the applause.” There’s a twist to his lips that makes Harry want to reach out and hug him. Because there’s no one watching, not even Amelia, he does, wrapping his arms around Ian and pressing a brief kiss to his cheek before letting go.

Ian looks at him, surprised and pleased. “What was that for?”

“You don’t have to play any part with me, you know. Like what you said earlier; I just want you.”

Ian’s smile turns a little sadder in a way Harry doesn’t understand. He plucks a book off the shelf and makes his way back to Amelia, setting it down on the counter. “I'd like to purchase this.”

“Fan of Oscar Wilde?” she asks.

“You could say I'm wild about him,” Ian says, completely straight-faced, and Amelia laughs.

“Dear God, that is awful.”

“Hear that a lot, do you?” Ian asks, passing her a few coins.

“Nearly every time someone purchases one of his books. Your change is-"

“Keep it,” Ian interrupts.

Her eyes widen, but she nods. “Alright. Thank you, sir.” Her eyes flash to Harry briefly, giving him a look of pleased disbelief.

Ian shakes his head. “Not sir. Mr. Grey is fine, Ian is better. A friend of Harry's is a friend of mine.”

“Ian, then.” She smiles. “I hope to see you again.”

Ian glances back at Harry, even though his words are directed at Amelia. “I'm sure you will.”

“I'll be seeing you next week, Harry?”

He nods, but he can't manage to break eye contact with Ian. “I'll see you then.”

Ian tucks the book into his trouser pocket, and when they hit the pavement, he asks, “Next week?”

“I have to budget carefully. I have a standing tab going at Miller’s. Amelia trusts me to pay it off every month, and next week I get my allowance, so I can pay her properly then,” Harry explains.

Ian gives him a curious look. “Allowance?”

It occurs to Harry that although he knows snippets of Ian's history, he hasn't told the other man much about himself. He glances around. There aren't many people about, but there are a few, and Harry isn't one to air his dirty laundry in public. “Ask me about it again tonight, and I'll tell you about it.”

Ian nods. “Alright. What next?”

“Well, I really don't go out much,” Harry admits. “I sometimes stop by Kingsman, but given your business there I imagine that might feel a bit too much like work?”

Ian shrugs. “I don't mind.”

“Well, the other option is picking up things for dinner, going back to my flat, and spending the evening in.”

Ian perks up. “I like that option.”

“Thought you might.” Harry turns back in the direction of home. “There's a shop on the way I usually stop at for groceries. I'm not very good at keeping my fridge stocked.”

“Too busy dreaming big dreams?” Ian teases.

Harry snorts. “More like nightmares. When I get frustrated with my writing, I have a nasty habit of focusing on nothing else until I've beaten it into submission.” Or until he gives up and abandons the story, but he doesn’t mention that.

“Well then,” Ian says. “I'd better enjoy your company until your work steals you away again.”

Harry doesn’t respond.

Most of what they get takes no preparation; cheese and bread and grapes, that sort of thing. Roxy has vanished from the step, probably to her flat now that night is starting to fall. They make their way back up to Harry’s apartment, Harry shifting a bit to unlock it, ignoring the gesture Ian makes to take the groceries from him.

“Table or floor?” Harry asks when they get inside, setting his bag down.

“Floor?” Ian suggests. “We could have a little picnic.”

They end up with Harry’s blanket spread out beneath them, cuddled together on it. Ian insists on hand feeding him bites of cheese and grapes. Harry doesn’t exactly mind. “So,” Ian prompts eventually. “The thing you told me to ask again later? Is now later enough?”

Harry swallows another bite and nods. “I just don’t like talking about it in public. It’s...complicated.”

“How so?”

“I’m gay.”

Ian chuckles. “You don’t say?” Harry shoots him a serious look, and Ian sobers up.

Harry continues, “My parents...we don’t see eye to eye on most things. They’re upper class, the sort that fit all the stereotypes, you know?”

“Silver spoon up their arses?”

Harry allows himself a small laugh, even if it does come out a little bitter. “Yes, that sort. I was, I’m ashamed to admit, much the same when I was very young, but that started to change as I got older. By the time I went to university I was completely repulsed by most of their ways of thinking. I put up with it for awhile, but eventually it got to be too much to bear. Things came to a head when certain rumours got out about Alistair.”

“Rumors?”

“He’d just met James, and someone had seen them together and made assumptions. Admittedly correct assumptions, but it hurt Alistair’s reputation badly. In that way at least, I think it was fortunate that his parents had already passed. He didn’t have to find out how they would have reacted. As it was, his brother-in-law forbid his sister from seeing him, and not being allowed to see her and Roxy damn near broke his heart.” Harry sighs. “It’s a terrible shame her mother died, but I have no sympathy for the loss of her father. It’s horrible, I know, but he was an intolerant man and I truly believe the world is better off without him.”

“And what about you?” Ian asks. “What did you do when the rumours started?”

“Well, I obviously already knew he was gay. And of course I knew about James as well. And when my parents caught wind of it...well, they didn’t want me associating with ‘people like that.’ Thought it might tarnish the family reputation. I defended Alistair, and I...I told them I was like him.” Harry shudders, and forces himself to choke back tears. It’s an old wound, one long since closed over, but the scar tissue is still sensitive.

Ian wraps an arm around him and kisses his temple. “What happened?” he asks quietly.

“They had a dilemma. They couldn’t tell anyone about me. If talking to a rumoured homosexual could ruin our name, having someone who actually bore the family name be outed as a queer? Unthinkable. I didn’t want to stay. I told them that if they let me go, I would live a quiet life, write some ‘morally appropriate’ books, and generally keep out of the spotlight. They would supply me with an allowance, just enough to get by on, and in return I’d just be the eccentric son who went off chasing dreams instead of being the family disgrace.”

“You’re not a disgrace, Harry,” Ian tells him softly. He kisses him again, his lips lingering where they’re pressed against the side of his head, and Harry leans into it and squeezes his eyes shut before they can start leaking.

“I’m fucking disgusting, and they knew it.”

“Hey,” Ian says sharply, and Harry flinches. The arm wrapped around him holds tighter, and Ian’s hand comes up to turn Harry’s face towards him, but his grip is gentle and his voice is lower and soothing when he says, “You’re not disgusting, Harry. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Harry sniff and wipes at his nose with his sleeve. He’s aware he looks pathetic. “Yes, there is,” he mumbles, trying to look away but unable to turn away from Ian’s hand.

“No, there isn’t,” Ian insists. He lets go of Harry’s face and strokes down his arm, twining their fingers together. “There’s nothing wrong about this,” he says, giving Harry’s hand a squeeze. “No matter what your family or anyone else says. It’s not disgusting. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. Every part of you.”

Harry wishes he could believe that. Ian looks so earnest that not believing him _hurts_. “Maybe you’re just looking at me wrong,” he murmurs.

“I promise you, love, I’m really not,” Ian tells him. “Do you think James and Alistair are disgusting? That their relationship is wrong?”

Harry shakes his head. James and Alistair are probably the healthiest, most in-love couple he’s ever encountered. They compliment each other perfectly.

“What about Roxy? Or Olivia?”

Again, Harry shakes his head. Roxy is brilliant, and Olivia seems bright and clever. Harry would willingly fight anyone who so much as said a bad word about either.

“And what about me?” Ian nudges him. “I’m gay, Harry. And I’m very much in...I like you a great deal. What does that make me?”

“A miracle,” Harry whispers. Something he doesn’t deserve. Something too precious and too dangerous to hold.

He turns his face into Ian, shivering into his side. Ian strokes his hair. “I think you’re a miracle too. I’ve never seen anyone shine as brightly as you do. Even when you’re calling yourself names.” Harry peers up at him. “Don’t let anyone ever, _ever_ tell you you’re not amazing, Harry Hart. Do you hear me?”

Harry nods meekly, once again struck by how hard it becomes to deny Ian when he uses Harry’s full name. Ian presses another kiss, this one to his forehead. “I was going to suggest staying up a bit, maybe having dessert,” he says, “but I think maybe bed is in order.”

Regret pangs through Harry, and something must show on his face, because Ian smiles sweetly at him. “Bed, Harry. Sleep. Dessert will keep until tomorrow.”

Harry allows Ian to tug him to his feet and guide him into bed. He strips Harry methodically, not making suggestive remarks or copping a feel (which, if Harry wasn’t feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion hit him, he might have appreciated more. Or been disappointed by. He’s not entirely sure), and tucking him under the covers. “I’m just going to clean up. I’ll be right back, alright?”

Harry nods, and he falls asleep to the soft sound of dishes clinking in the other room.


	9. Chapter 9

Morning brings with it soft light through dirty windows. Harry stirs slowly, and for a moment his own bed feels unfamiliar, given where he’s spent the last few nights. What is familiar is the steady rise and fall of Ian’s chest under his hand where Harry is curled into his side. When he cracks his eyes open, Harry can confirm what he feels under his palm; bare skin, Ian stripped down as Harry himself is.

Ian rouses, whether by coincidence or woken by Harry, and blinks his eyes open. He gives half a smile, more with his eyes than his lips. “Good morning.”

Harry traces shapes over the firm muscles of Ian’s chest. “I’m almost disappointed,” he murmurs. “I never got a chance to properly appreciate what you were wearing yesterday.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to sleep in it. It’s comfortable, but it’s not _that_ comfortable. And last night you were a bit…”

Harry winces. “I’m sorry.” As Ian’s comment yesterday morning made clear, Ian isn’t expecting anything from him, but it still touches on something uncomfortable in Harry’s chest. Sex is one thing. What happened last night is so much more intimate.

“You don’t have to apologize. We’ve all been there at some point or another.”

“Really?” Harry looks up at him. “Even you?” Ian seems so confident, so sure of who he is. Harry’s can’t picture him insecure.

“Aye,” Ian says. “It was a long time ago, yes, but there was a time when I thought I was going to hell for loving men.”

“What changed?”

“I became an atheist,” Ian jokes. Then he turns serious. “I realized that what I was feeling wasn’t any different than the way a man loves a woman. Not really. It’s just love, pure and simple. Well,” he chuckles, “maybe not simple. But once I thought about it like that, my perspective changed. I stopped seeing it as something dirty, something shameful, not just lust that needed to be controlled and hidden, but as real love too, something pure and beautiful.”

“Just like that?”

“‘Above all, love each other deeply, for love covers over a multitude of sin,’” Ian quotes softly. “1 Peter 4:8. Not the most direct translation, admittedly, but it was the one that always resonated with me.”

“I didn’t know you were religious.”

Ian shrugs. “I’m not. At least, not like that, not anymore.”

Harry can’t blame him. He had a great deal of faith as a child, but growing up made religion, like many parts of his childhood, harder to stomach. “I’m not sure what I believe in,” Harry admits. “I want to think there’s a higher power, but everything tells us that if there is one, he’d be horrified by what I am.”

“What we are,” Ian reminds him. “And if there is something like that out there, I don’t think it would be horrified. God supposedly made man in his own image, but man is too varied to be modeled after just one thing. So maybe God isn’t just one thing either. Maybe there’s a part of God that’s gay too.”

Harry stares at Ian. On the one hand, what he’s saying borders on blasphemous. On the other...it makes a bit of sense. He looks away and shifts, resting his head on Ian’s shoulder. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Alright,” Ian says easily. He falls silent, and Harry takes a moment, just breathing in, feeling the close warmth of Ian’s body, reminding him he’s not alone.

Eventually, Harry murmurs, “We should probably eat something.” He groans, remembering, “I didn’t get anything for breakfast.”

“There’s dessert we didn’t eat last night,” Ian suggests. “I put it in your refrigerator, so it should still be good.”

Given how erratic his eating schedule is, Harry does try to be at least somewhat healthy when he does eat. “I’m not sure cake for breakfast-”

“It’s not cake,” Ian tells him. “Chocolate covered strawberries.”

“Oh.” That’s more reasonable.

“You can always scrape the chocolate off and eat the strawberries.” Harry flicks him gently, and Ian chuckles. “I’ll go get them.”

Harry doesn’t want Ian to leave the bed, but because there’s no other option, he releases his grip. A rush of cold air hits him when the blanket shifts, and Harry shivers, sitting up and tucking the covers up around his shoulders. When Ian climbs back in beside him, chilled bag of strawberries in hand, Harry lets him in and immediately clings back to his side, leeching the heat Ian radiates.

“Are you going to let me hand feed them to you, or is it too early for that?” Ian asks, mirth tinting his voice.

“I can feed myself,” Harry mumbles, if only because he’s a little too tired to initiate sex this early and he knows that if he gets Ian’s fingers anywhere near his mouth, his oral fixation will kick in and it will be downhill from there. Ian sets the bag on the bed between them and Harry fishes out a strawberry. The tang bursts into life on his tongue, smoothed over by the sweet chocolate, and he licks his lips as juice dribbles down them.

Ian is watching him. “What?” Harry asks defensively.

Ian shakes his head. “Nothing.” Harry can’t decipher the look on his face, but it disappears as Ian bites into his own strawberry.

They sit in silence for a long while, chewing and occasionally licking their fingers. Ian has a particularly lewd way of doing it, hollowing his cheeks and sucking the juices off the digits before pulling them past his lips with a pop. Harry is relieved Ian doesn’t try to make eye contact, either unaware of what he’s doing or intentionally ignoring Harry, because if he had Harry’s not convinced he could finish breakfast. As it is, he keeps having to stop himself from lunging every time a smear of chocolate lingers at the corner of Ian’s lips. He makes a mental note: strawberries - good seduction food.

Eventually the bag is depleted, and Ian leans back against the headboard and finally looks at him again. “So now what? Any plans for today?”

“Well, I’m sure you have appointments,” Harry says, drawing out the end of the word, turning it into a question to indicate that Ian should confirm or deny it.

Ian leans over the side of the bed, and Harry peers over, watching him extract a small diary and a thin case from the pocket of his neatly folded trousers, sitting in a pile with the rest of his clothes - all of them, corset and stockings included - on the floor next to the bed. He settles again, opening the case and sliding a pair of glasses onto his face (Harry’s heart gives an unexpected stutter), and thumbs through the diary. “No, it looks like I’ve got the day off,” Ian says. “I closed the deal on Kingsman, so I suppose I deserve some free time.”

“What do you do when you...acquire places like that?” Harry asks, thinking of Eggsy. “Business-wise, I mean.”

Ian catches the look on his face. “I’m not heartless, Harry. I’m a really just a glorified benefactor. Me owning it is just a way to make sure what they’re doing right, they keep doing right, and to fix what they’re doing wrong. I’m not planning on stepping on any toes, or firing anyone. Especially knowing the bartender comes personally recommended.”

He arches an eyebrow, and Harry looks at him in surprise. “How did you-?”

“Eggsy mentioned that you’d gotten him his job there. He’s good, maybe not as good as Tequila, but to be fair to Eggsy, Tequila has been bartending a lot longer. It’d be a shame to squash potential like that.”

Harry nods, satisfied. He sneaks another peek at Ian, trying not to look like he’s staring. “You wear reading glasses?”

Ian laughs. “Truth be told, I should probably wear them all the time, but they don’t exactly match the image I’ve tried to cultivate.”

“Yes, you don’t see many gangsters wearing glasses,” Harry teases.

There’s a flicker of...something...that crosses Ian’s face, but then he smirks. “Exactly.”

Harry thumps his head back against the wall, “Well, you may not have any plans for today, but I really need to get some writing done. I had something I was working on, and it was going really well, but I seem to have misplaced my papers.”

Ian tugs a few loose leaves out of his diary. “These papers?” And abruptly, Harry understands Ian’s guilty look the day before. He doesn’t look guilty now, though; he’s smirking, and he pushes his glasses up his nose and reads, “‘There was a certain air about the stranger, an element of mystery, and the innate danger that came with mystery, that Eliza could not help but shudder at. And yet, nor could she look away from him, his dark gaze pinning her like a butterfly on a corkboard. She had a suspicion that, were he to grab her, all the fluttering of her wings would not break his hold. But when he did touch her, it was as soft as the proverbial butterfly kiss, a ghost of a hand lingering at her elbow. She trailed his arm with her eyes, up over the grey pinstripes to look him in the eye, spellbound.’” He looks back up at Harry. “Not bad. Intriguing.”

Harry snatches the papers back and blushes. “It’s just a rough draft.” It’s a little too pretentious and clunky, but it’s a start, at least.

“You really like the butterfly metaphors, don’t you?” Ian asks, glancing around the room at Harry’s own collection. There aren’t many cases in his bedroom, most of them taking up residence in the main part of his flat, but he’s abruptly aware of the dead eyes watching them on his bed. They’ve never bothered him, but he’s reminded again of the fact that the average person doesn’t like to be watched by dead insects.

“I like butterflies,” he answers slowly. “I know my hobby seems a bit morbid, but...”

“I think it’s charming,” Ian says, which is pleasantly surprising, although Harry supposes it makes sense in a way. In the short time they’ve been acquainted, Ian has proven that he’s not exactly average. “Although I must admit, I’m a bit more curious about this mysterious stranger our dear Eliza is fixated on. However did you come up with him?”

“Now I know you’re making fun of me,” Harry huffs. Ian’s eyes are sparkling.

“So, would you say you normally draw inspiration from the people you interact with, or…?”

“I don’t normally draw inspiration at all,” Harry snaps. “Writing is a fucking struggle, and each piece fights me tooth and nail, and for the first time in a very long time the words are starting to come a little more easily to me, and _yes_ , it might be in part because of you. Happy?”

Ian blinks at the acidity of Harry’s tone. “I wasn’t trying to-”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’ve been told I can get a bit...defensive about my writing. I don’t like showing people my drafts.”

“I had Olivia look up your work. She managed to track down a few of your books. I’ve been reading them a bit, in between everything. They’re good.”

“They’re alright.”

“They’re good,” Ian insists. “You clearly pour your heart into them, and it shows.” He takes of his glasses and sets them on the nightstand. “I’m sorry I took the pages without your permission. I was curious, and I crossed a line.”

Harry waves him off. Ian hadn’t meant any harm, and it’s such a small transgression that Harry can forgive him. “Just please don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” Ian promises. He hesitates, “I noticed...all of your books have a female lead.”

“I find it easier to write a male love interest,” Harry explains bitterly, “and the only way I can do that is if the lead is a woman.”

Ian nods in understanding. “Well, you write it well. Olivia says too many books written by men treat the female characters more as objects than people.”

“Well, it helps that I had a lot of strong women in my life,” Harry admits. “Hard to treat a woman like an object, even in fiction, when I know Roxy will kick my arse when she reads the next novel.” Ian laughs, and Harry shrugs. “Besides, she’s the heroine of the piece. There’s nothing I despise more than a bland heroine.” Not that Eliza gives him much choice in how he writes her. She’s remarkably strong-willed.

“Since I’ve returned the pages you lost, do you still need to spend the day chained to your desk?”

Harry eyes him quizzically. “I really should get at least some work done. Why?”

“I was thinking of bringing you to my tailors.”

Harry blinks. “Why?” he asks again, with less suspicion and more surprise.

Ian arches an eyebrow. “Why does one usually go to a tailor? You mentioned the other day that you don’t really have a good suit, and I thought maybe we could change that.”

Harry knows what a good suit, by Ian’s standards, costs. “I don’t have that sort of money just lying around. And I’ll be damned if I ask my parents for more.”

“Seems they think you’re damned anyway,” Ian quips, “but I was planning on paying for you.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” The thing is, Ian does look perfectly serious, and Harry gapes at him. “Harry, money isn’t an issue for me. I’m a good businessman, I’m doing very well, and I’d like to treat you the way you deserve.” His expression turns playful. “I did tell you how well I treat my acquisitions, after all.”

Harry crosses his arms and hunches his shoulders, looking away from Ian. “So you want a kept boy, is that it?”

“I was _joking_ , Harry.” Ian sounds frustrated. “It’s not about that. It’s about you deserving the best, and me wanting to provide that.” His fingers curl gently around Harry’s shoulder, and Harry can’t help but relax into the touch. “It was just a suggestion. If the thought really makes you that uncomfortable then I won’t push, but if you’re alright with it...”

Harry swallows. “You really wouldn’t mind? Dressing me up, paying for me like that? I know suits are expensive.”

“Not only would I not mind, I would be ecstatic. There is an awful lot I’d like to dress you up in, Harry Hart, and I figure a suit is as good a place to start as any.”

“Alright,” Harry relents. “If that’s really what you want, I wouldn’t want to deny you.” He can handle a little bit of spoiling from Ian.

Ian grins and tucks himself closer to Harry, nuzzling into his neck and nipping gently at his ear. Harry melts back into him, and Ian murmurs, “We don’t have to get out of bed just yet. I know I’m not dressed up prettily like yesterday, but-”

Harry turns in his grip and silences him with a firm kiss.

About two hours and three orgasms (two of them Harry’s) later, Ian - dressed in his clothes from the day before but without any of his undergarments, a thought that keeps flickering across Harry’s mind no matter how much he tries to focus on literally anything else - leads him into Huntsman Tailors. Harry stiffens when he recognizes the man behind the desk, and he looks equally surprised to see Harry.

Ian doesn’t seem to notice. “Good morning, Bridgemont. Good to see you again.”

Bridgemont’s eyes flick back and forth between the two of them, but he settles on Ian and addresses him, “A pleasure as always, Mr. Grey. What can I do for you today?”

Ian rests a hand more-or-less platonically on Harry’s shoulder. “My friend here is in the market for a new suit, and naturally I thought to recommend him to you. Your work is the best, after all.”

Bridgemont smiles at the flattery. “We aim to please. And it has been a long while since I have had the pleasure of measuring Mr. Hart.”

Ian doesn’t miss a beat, although Harry sees the brief flash of surprise cross his face. “Then I’ll let you get to it.” He releases Harry, who follows Bridgemont into dressing room one. Harry is almost surprised when Ian doesn’t enter after them, and the door closes on him looking over the racks of fabric, poking through them with lazy interest.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” Bridgemont says as he pulls out his tape measure and writing implements, “but it really has been a long while since you’ve been in. I had wondered what became of you.”

“My family and I had a bit of a disagreement about what constitutes appropriate behavior,” Harry says, because if you can’t trust your tailor, who can you trust? He’s not going to get into any sort of details, of course, but Bridgemont isn’t an idiot, and back when the rumours about Alistair and James first surfaced, Bridgemont had always maintained that Alistair was a proper gentleman, and that any speculation about what went on in his bedroom was not gentlemanly - or ladylike - behavior. It had not endeared him to many of his customers, but Harry has always appreciated him for it.

“Of course, sir.” Bridgemont nods knowingly. “I assume your acquaintance with Mr. Grey has something to do with this disagreement?”

Harry hesitates, “Mr. Grey has nothing to do with the disagreement. I only just met him.” He moves into position automatically, hardly needing Bridgemont’s guidance. It may have been awhile, but his muscles remember what to do.

“I see,” Bridgemont says. “Well, he is a very esteemed gentleman. There are worse people you could keep company with.”

“I’m quite aware of that,” Harry says. “I had almost forgotten what being a gentleman was like, until I met him.” Ian may be a bit secretive, but he’s courteous, sweet, and Harry would even say downright chivalrous.

Bridgemont eyes him critically. “You know,” he says after a moment, “being a gentleman is not about class or status.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

Bridgemont smiles. “Being a gentleman lies in your treatment of yourself and others. With courtesy, dignity, and honour. Most of the so-called gentlemen running around these days aren’t half the men they claim to be.”

Harry considers that. His family would disagree, of that he’s certain, but he thinks he likes Bridgemont’s definition better. Ian, he knows, comes from nothing, or near enough, but he’s twice the gentleman Harry’s titled father could ever hope to be.

“You make an excellent point, Bridgemont,” Harry tells him.

“Thank you, sir.” Bridgemont hums as he works, and after another beat says, “I still see Mr. Morton and his flatmate Mr. Spencer on the regular, you know.”

Harry knows. “Alistair frequently compliments your work. Although he is eternally exasperated that you give in to James’s flights of fancy.”

If Harry didn’t know better, he’d say Bridgemont looked amused. “Mr. Spencer has the complexion, and more importantly the temperament, to pull of a wider range of fabrics than most.”

“You just like to see people whisper about how dreadful his tailor must be, don’t you?”

“I am an old man, Mr. Hart. I have few joys in life.”

Harry laughs at Bridgemont’s perfectly neutral expression. He pulls it off even better than Ian. “And you take them wherever you can,” he finishes.

“Precisely.” Bridgemont straightens up and begins rolling up the tape measure. “There. You’re done.” He gestures towards the door. “Shall we pick fabrics? Or would you like your standard order?”

Harry follows him out. “I wasn’t aware I still had a standard order.”

“I never throw out a customer’s file,” Bridgemont says. “Sometimes not even after they are no longer of this world.”

Harry hears Ian chuckle to himself. He’s no longer looking at fabrics, having seated himself on the sofa instead, drumming his fingers against his thigh. “Are we boring you?” Harry asks him, arching his eyebrows.

“Not at all,” Ian says. “If I may, Bridgemont, I’d highly recommend the dark blue velvet for the jacket. It’s elegant, but not too flashy.”

“And it would suit Mr. Hart’s complexion,” Bridgemont agrees. He glances at Harry questioningly.

Harry waves a hand. “Yes, fine.” It’s not the sort of practical thing he would normally wear, but if Ian is suggesting it then he’s not going to deny him. He does like the way the velvet looks, and when he runs his finger carefully over it he savours the luxurious feel of the textile.

He picks out the fabric for the rest of the ensemble, and then Ian has a quiet word with Bridgemont before the man dismisses them with a polite, “I’ll see you next week for your first fitting?”

“We’ll pencil it in,” Ian promises, steering Harry out of the shop. He lets go before they hit the pavement. There’s a beat between them, and then Ian says conversationally, “You never told me you’d been to Huntsman before.”

“It never came up. I wasn’t aware they were your tailors as well.”

“They’re the best in London. Possibly best in the world, but I haven’t been everywhere yet, so don’t quote me on that. I’ve put off buying suits in New York before just so I could get one here instead.”

“My parents were fond of them. Although after the scandal with Alistair, I believe they stopped going.”

“Oh?”

Harry explains Bridgemont’s defense of his friend. “Most of his customers put it down to not losing business. A practical move, as it were. My parents were not willing to accept that sort of explanation. They rather felt it poor business practice to offer services to those they deemed unworthy of them. They would be appalled to know you shop there,” he adds.

“I’ll have you know I’m highly respected in upper class social circles,” Ian says, with an air of mock dignity. “I’m a very accomplished businessman, after all.”

“You’re also Scottish,” Harry points out, a statement that sounds ludacris against Ian’s perfect British accent.

“Hmm,” Ian hums in agreement. “Also queer. Can’t forget that.”

Harry tenses at the admission in public, but no one gives them so much as a second glance. Harry lower his voice, “Yes, there is that too. Although I wouldn’t go announcing it in public, if I were you.”

“Eh, what’s life without a little danger?” Ian nudges him playfully. “Besides, everyone in this part of town is too busy judging people by their appearance to give a shit what comes out of anyone’s mouth.”

Harry shakes his head. “People in this part of town love to gossip, a fact which you should be well familiar with.”

Ian leans a little closer and breathes in Harry’s ear, “So let them gossip.”

Harry shivers, both from the proximity and from nerves. Ian gets the hint without Harry having to say a thing and backs off, putting a respectable distance between them again. He leaves Harry at his front stoop, a still-smoking cigarette butt indicating that they just missed Roxy’s departure. “I had a lovely time,” Ian tells him. “I’ll leave you to write in peace, but I hope I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Harry nods. Ian pulls a card out of his pocket and passes it to Harry. “The phone number for my hotel room. I always answer calls, so if I’m in, I’ll pick up.”

Harry takes it. “What about your things? You left…” There’s no appropriate way to say ‘you left your lingerie in my apartment.’

Ian gets the hint anyway. His lips quirk up into that playful half-smile. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll be back for it at some point. Keep it safe for me, why don’t you?”

Harry has no idea how to respond to that, so he simply nods and takes a step towards the stairs. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll expect your call, Harry Hart. Write pretty things about me.” Ian winks and then saunters off down the street. Harry watches him go and then returns to his flat.


	10. Chapter 10

Harry does actually end up writing. Eliza has fallen in line, the plot is running smoothly, and it’s the most confident he’s been about writing in months. He doesn’t stop for dinner, although he does swallow a bit more ink than probably healthy. He really needs to stop sucking on his pens.

It’s not until he hits a snag in the conflict that he stops to take a break. The image just sort of peters out, slipping away from his grasp. He sets down the pen and stands up, nearly falling over again as the blood rushes to his head and makes the room spin. He clutches at the chair to steady himself, and when it doesn’t feel like his legs are going to collapse under him he paces across the room, stretching himself out and giving his brain a much deserved break.

He pauses the next time he strides past the bedroom door, stopping and walking backwards a few steps to look inside. He stares at the little pile of folded undergarments on his bed. He moves towards them, his stride shaky and halting, as if approaching a wild animal. He can’t quite explain his trepidation, only knows that when he smooths his hand over the corset on top, he has the strangest thought that the lace is about to bite him. He pulls his hand back, then reaches out again, pretending he isn’t shaking as he transfers the garments to the chair in the corner.

On Ian, the clothes are enticing, sensual, seducitve. On their own, they’re all the same things, but Harry can’t explain why he feels so differently about that.

He reaches for the corset again. He picks it up carefully, but it’s sturdier than the lacy edges would suggest, firm and trailing laces where the back is open. Harry turns towards the mirror, holding the corset up to his chest. He twists a little, looking at the blue lace and black fabric. The colour doesn’t look as good on him as it does on Ian, but he thinks he could look fetching enough in the design. The thought is both pleasing and brings bile up the back of his throat, and his fingers slip, the fabric sliding through them and dropping to the floor with a muffled thump. Harry braces himself against the mirror, forehead pressed against the smooth, cool glass.

He remembers why telling Ian he’d never considered crossdressing felt like a lie. It’s not something he thinks about if he can help it, buried so deep in his mind he’d half-forgotten it.

He remembers being about five years old and telling his mum that he loved the dress a girl about his age was wearing to church. His mother cooed appropriately, making all the standard comments about potential future brides that Harry bore for most of his youth, but Harry hadn’t meant anything of the sort. He’d been transfixed by her dress, yellow with white lace around the hem and with big bright flowers on it. The skirt had looked so fluffy, like if you spun around it would flare out and catch the wind, taking you straight up into the sky.

He’d worn dresses before. It was what you did with children when he had been young, although the practice was quickly going out of fashion. But his parents had stopped sooner than most, much to Harry’s displeasure, in favour of trousers instead. He’d been three, and according to his parents he’d thrown quite a tantrum. They’d brushed it off as a normal fit for a child resisting change and had gone ahead with dressing him in “proper clothes for growing boys.” Harry had apparently stopped fussing, but that didn’t mean he had stopped wanting the dresses back.

After this particular service, he’d slipped away from his parents, approaching the girl shyly and asking if he could try her dress on. She’d frowned at him, confused, and he’d offered to trade her his trousers for it. She’d been excited at the prospect; she’d never been allowed to wear trousers before, and so saw it as a reasonable trade. Their parents had caught them both half-dressed, made some shocked complaints about scandals, and dragged them to their respective homes before Harry had a chance to actually try on the dress.

It became clear to him, in the natural way that five-year-old logic worked, that wearing dresses was something forbidden.

It hadn’t stopped him. Harry had gotten a little older, and at age eight he was sneaking into his mother’s closet, stretching slightly pudgy hands up to reach the hangers holding soft, respectable church dresses. They were too long for him, baggy and awkward, but he loved the flowing feel of them, loose and freeing in a way that trousers weren’t.

He stole one, shoving it under his mattress where he knew his parents wouldn’t look, moving it only when the maids came through his room. He was ten before he slipped up, and the maid who found it brought the dress immediately to his parents. Harry flinches, remembering the spanking, tears streaming down his face as he sobbed and apologized. His father had been disgusted, his mother horrified, and the only consolation Harry had was that they hadn’t connected it to any idea of femininity, but rather an inability to grow up. A few years at an all-boys boarding school had “fixed” that, and Harry had squashed the memory as far back in his mind as possible and forgotten about it, tucked away behind layers of how a proper man was supposed to act until Ian had shaken it loose.

Harry lifts his head. His eyes look watery in the mirror, close to tears, and he sniffs and rubs at them, lifting his chin defiantly and staring at his reflection with a cold gaze. His parents don’t have a say in his life anymore. Not about this. Not about who he is. Ian’s gentle words last night, his insistence that what Harry’s parents thought about him didn’t matter, was the final stroke. It’s not an epiphany, a magical fix-it moment to reverse all of his childhood trauma, but it’s a step in the right direction.

Harry picks the corset up off the floor, holding it up to his chest again. Then he smiles, sets it back on the chair with the rest of Ian’s undergarments, and leaves the bedroom.

Actually, he leaves the flat. There’s something inside him that feels lighter, growing too big to be contained by the walls of his flat, and when he steps out into the fresh air it’s a relief, like his lungs suddenly have room to expand fully. Well, maybe not fully. He fights back a cough as he gets a whiff of Roxy’s cigarettes.

“Taking a break?” she asks. She’s sprawled, as usual, across the stone steps, taking up most of the bottom of the stairs. Harry descends, leaning against the wall a few steps above her, and looks down at her.

“I think I’m done for the day,” he tells her. “But I was very productive.”

“Must have been some day. You’re damn near glowing.”

“Very good day,” Harry says, and he doesn’t just mean the writing.

Roxy takes another drag on her cigarette. “So. Ian?”

“And there goes my good day,” Harry teases. “If I was aware I was going to be interrogated, I wouldn’t have left my flat.”

Roxy crosses one leg over the other, stubbing out the end of her cigarette and lighting a new one. “Since you’re here anyway…” She props herself up a little higher, and raises her eyebrows at him. “Well? What’s the deal with Ian?”

“What do you mean?”

“He spent the night last night, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Harry says stiffly. “He did.” He looks away from the drilling intensity of her gaze. The street is mostly empty; a few people are going home late or heading out early for dinner, but beyond that it’s just the two of them, illuminated by the yellow glow of the streetlamps as the sky turns from turquoise to indigo.

“How long has that been going on?”

“For god's sake.” Harry sighs. “He spent the night once. That’s nothing to write home about.”

“For you it is.” Roxy tilts her head. “So, he was after the Scottish one, right? The one you mentioned the other day?” She looks thoughtful, and answers her own question, “He must be. You only met Ian at dinner with Uncle the other night, and that was after.” She looks to Harry for confirmation.

He hesitates, and then nods. Ian’s nationality is not his secret to tell. She whistles, impressed. “You don’t normally go out on the pull so close together.”

“I didn’t-” Harry cuts himself off and sighs. “It isn’t like that.”

“So you two aren’t shagging, then?”

“Lower your voice, _please_ ,” Harry hisses. He glances around nervously. The elation is fading, replaced by familiar paranoia.

Roxy appears nonplussed as she looks lazily out into the street. She turns back to Harry. “Well? You are, aren’t you?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. But he’s different.”

“What’d you mean? Different how?”

Harry shrugs. “I didn’t go out and find him. He found me. And he wants to keep me, at least for a little while.”

“Keep you?” Roxy looks surprised, and she carefully probes, “And you want to keep him?”

“I don’t know. I like him, Roxy, a great deal more than I should. But…”

“But what?”

“But what if we get caught?” Harry wraps his arms around himself. “What if he breaks my heart?”

Roxy’s eyes go wide and she actually hops to her feet. “Harry Hart! Are you in _love_?”

“No!” Harry protests. He amends, “Not yet. But I think...I think I could be. Given time.”

“Love is scary.” Roxy’s eyes are wide and earnest and far too wise for her age. “But it’s worth it. It’s better to have loved and-”

“And lost, yes, I’m familiar with the expression,” Harry interrupts. “What about you? You and Miss March have been spending some time together, and you seem rather fond of each other.”

Roxy blushes. “I like her. And I think she likes me. Beyond that, I’m not sure yet. Ian keeps her pretty busy with work, so we haven’t seen as much of each other as I would like.” She takes a seat again, not sprawled but sitting properly on the ledge next to the stairs, legs folded neatly. “You know she calls him Merlin?”

“I had heard the nickname, yes.”

“It’s an odd nickname. And Olivia wouldn’t tell how he got it, either. Just giggled when I asked.” She sighs, looking far too sappy for Harry’s taste. “She has the cutest laugh.”

Harry has to admit: in love, or at least infatuated, is a good look on Roxy. “I’ll see if I can’t wrangle Ian away so she can have a little more free time. How does that sound?”

Roxy grins. “Well, I’m not about to say no.”

Harry coughs as she blows out another puff of smoke. “Of course, that’s assuming you don’t kill me with those things before I get the chance.”

Roxy laughs and waves the cigarette at him. “They can’t hurt you, Harry.”

“They bloody well can if I choke to death on the smoke.” He pushes off the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ll leave you to it.”

She takes another drag, forming a shaky smoke-ring with her tongue and blowing it purposefully in his direction. Harry wrinkles his nose and waves it away, but he laughs when she wiggles her fingers at him in response.

His desk is still covered in papers when he returns upstairs; he hadn’t bothered to clean up when he finished working. He goes about tidying up now, straightening up his desk and organizing the pages into neat piles. The story he’s writing isn’t the same as it was even just a few days ago, but Harry likes this new direction better. He thinks it has the potential to be his greatest work yet.

He does have this little plot snag to iron out, of course, but it doesn’t feel the same as the usual ruts he gets stuck in. It’s just a little bump in the road. Now that Hamish - the name he’s chosen to give the mysterious stranger Eliza has become entangled with - has entered the plot, Eliza has been playing nice. Harry is fairly certain they’ll end up together, although he doesn’t have a fixed ending in mind. He’s confident he’ll figure it out.

In his flat, locked safely away from the outside world again, he feels the ease return, the warmth bubbling back up in his chest. He glances at the telephone. The card Ian gave him is still where Harry left it, wedged underneath the base.

No. He’s not going to call. He saw Ian just a few hours ago, and there’s no need to continually pester him.

Harry looks at the phone again.

Quite without his consent, his legs cross the room and his fingers dial the number and lift the receiver to his ear. It only takes a moment for the operator to connect the call, and then Ian’s voice fills his ear. “Hello, love. You know, when I told you to call me, I didn’t expect you to do it today.”

The endearment - which Harry had noticed before but had put off thinking about - suddenly makes him nervous, shattering the safety bubble of the room. “Could you not call me that?” he asks. “At least, not over the phone. Someone could be listening in.”

Ian laughs. “But calling you ‘love’ in person is alright?” At Harry’s silence, he adds, “Relax, Harry. The operators know better than to listen in to phone calls, especially here. The hotel pays them very well to understand that. They get a lot of confidential clients.”

What with the honesty of the past day or so, Harry had almost managed to forget the enigma that was Ian Grey. “Would you be one of those clients?”

“I’m a businessman, Harry, not a celebrity. It’s not as if people try to find out my room number so they can pop ‘round asking for an autograph.”

“Shame,” Harry teases, relaxing with Ian’s reassurance. “My parents would really hate it if I was involved with a celebrity. They can’t stand for tabloid nonsense.”

“And I’m sure they’d go absolutely mad for the fact that I’m a man,” Ian shoots back playfully.

“Well, you do wear dresses on occasion,” Harry says. He’s testing the waters, gauging his courage. “That might confuse them a bit.”

He worries the joke will fall flat until Ian snickers. “God, Alistair is so bloody ordinary. If they hate him just for being gay, I think meeting me might actually give them heart attacks.”

“I should invite you to their house at some point, then,” Harry says, and only sort of means it.

Ian’s laughter dies off a bit as he sobers up. “So. I can’t imagine you called me to talk about offing your parents.”

“I wanted to hear your voice.” Harry is going to sew his mouth shut. It’s really turning out to be nothing but trouble.

“Aw.” Ian doesn’t sound like he’s mocking him. “Missed me already?”

Harry toys with the phone cord. “If I say yes, will I come across as clingy?”

“You’ve never had a proper relationship before. I think a little bit of clinginess is alright.”

Harry glances towards his bedroom door again. He can’t see Ian’s clothes at this angle, but he can’t forget that they’re there. He bites his lip. “I should come over sometime tomorrow. To return the things you left here.”

There’s a pause, and then Ian says, “Are you alright?”

“Of course.”

“You sounded…”

Harry takes a breath, and forces himself to say, “About you wanting to dress me up...does that extend to actual dresses?” He can’t believe he’s asking, but the idea has taken hold of him now.

He hears a sharp intake of breath on Ian’s side of the line, and then Ian says carefully, “Yes, it does. Very much so. If...I mean...”

Harry nods, even though he knows Ian can’t see him. “I think I’d like that,” he says, and the words come out far more easily than he expected. “When...whenever you’d like. I’d like to do it.”

“Alright,” Ian says, and his voice is so gentle and full of awe that part of Harry wants to cry at the intensity of it. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m...I can’t say I’m not nervous, but I’m sure.”

“You’re incredible,” Ian tells him, and the words spark something warm and glowing in Harry’s chest. It’s not quite the same feeling from earlier, but it’s better because it’s Ian.

Harry swallows hard, and his next words shudder a bit as he exhales. “Can I see you tomorrow?”

“After a declaration like that, I would be disappointed if you didn’t. What time were you thinking?”

“Sometime around noon?” Harry suggests.

“You still have the key I gave you?”

Harry glances towards his desk, where he stashed it. “Yes.”

“Then feel free to come at noon. If I’m not there, let yourself in. I’ll leave instructions with the hotel so Charlie doesn’t bother you.” Harry can practically see the smirk on Ian’s face, and he rolls his eyes.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

“Goodnight, love.”

“Goodnight.” Harry hands up the phone and takes a deep breath. Suddenly, tomorrow can’t come soon enough.


	11. Chapter 11

“Mr. Grey, might I please have your autograph?”

Ian bursts out laughing at Harry’s impersonation of an enthusiastic fan, complete with batted eyelashes. “Pretty sure I should be asking you that,” he says, stepping aside to let Harry into the suite. “What with you being the actual celebrity and all.”

“I’m no more a celebrity than you are,” Harry says, setting the bag containing Ian’s clothes on the sofa.

“Little bit closer than me,” Ian points out, closing the door and sweeping Harry into his arms for a greeting kiss. “You are the writer, after all.”

Harry accepts the kiss and then steps out of Ian’s hold. “Well, it’s nice to know I have at least one fan. Even if I am somewhat bribing him with sex.” He settles on the sofa. “Any plans for the day?”

“Actually, I have a surprise for you.”

Harry frowns as Ian leaves the room, and then his eyes widen as Ian comes back with three dresses draped over his arm. He lays them out, arranging them over the sofa so Harry can look at them. The first is floor-length and vibrant red, the skirt slightly darker over a gauzy bodice adorned with silver sequins in flower-like patterns. The second is blue and velvety, bunched slightly at the waist and only long enough to hit mid-thigh, with a long shoulder cape panel draped off the left shoulder. Both have “sleeves” about as thick as two or three of Harry’s fingers, and high, modest necklines. The third, by contrast, has the same thin sleeves, but the neckline dives into a sharp v. It’s grey, covered in a myriad of sequined patterns, and with a large, false white stone set into the fabric just below the v, black fringe dripping off the triangles at the base of the skirt, also cut at the mid-thigh. They are all gorgeous, and Harry is reminded of that moment in church, of wanting so desperately to touch but not being sure he’s allowed to.

“What are these?” he asks, as if he didn’t already know.

“They’re for you.” Ian is masking his nervousness well, but Harry can see a glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes. “You said I could-”

“I remember.” Harry steels himself against the shame he can feel prodding at the back of his mind and stretches out a hand to run it over the fabric of the velvet dress. “They’re beautiful.”

“You like them? I wasn’t sure.”

“I do,” Harry assures him. “When did you get them?”

Ian looks sheepish. “After you called yesterday, I might have gotten a bit excited. I sent Bridgemont a note asking for your measurements, and once I reassured him that we weren’t taking it to Huntsman’s rivals, he was more than happy to hand them over. Then I sent Olivia out this morning. She has a better eye than me, both for colour and style.”

Harry’s stomach twists. “So she knows? Who they’re for, I mean?”

Ian’s expression shifts to worry. “Aye. Is that a problem? She won’t tell anyone, I promise. She shops for me, most of the time. She can keep a secret.”

Harry shakes his head and sternly tells his stomach to get a grip. He smiles at Ian. “It’s not a problem. Tell her thank you from me, will you?”

Ian relaxes. “Would you like to try them on?”

Harry looks at the dresses again and finds it in himself to nod. He wants to. And it’s only Ian here. Ian isn’t going to judge him.

“Would you like my help, or…?”

Harry stands up and nods again. “That would be appreciated.” He reaches out, hesitates, and then selects the red dress. Ian folds it over his arm while Harry strips, trying not to feel awkward as Ian watches. He pauses when he gets down to his underclothes. “Should I…?”

“With these styles, you don’t need to wear much of anything underneath.”

“You just want to see me naked,” Harry snipes playfully, and Ian winks at him.

“Guilty as charged.”

Harry finishes disrobing, and then Ian helps him slide on the dress. It falls past Harry’s knees, settling breezily around his feet. He adjusts the shoulders, then runs his hand over the dress, feeling the way it tucks in at the waist and then flares out again at the hip. Ian turns him toward a mirror. Harry ducks his head away shyly; seeing it makes it real, means he’s actually doing this.

Ian nudges him a little closer. “Go on.”

Harry slowly lifts his head and takes in his appearance. The colour suits him well enough, and the shape of the dress works to make curves where there really are none. His chest doesn’t look at flat as he expected, and he pokes at the bodice experimentally and finds padding. Behind him, he sees Ian in the mirror, smiling in amusement.

“The shop these came from knows me and Olivia as customers. You’d be surprised what they can do to enhance things just a little.” Ian wraps his arms around Harry from behind, settling on his hips. He rests his chin against Harry’s shoulder. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure I can pull it off as well as you,” Harry says. He turns, dislodging Ian, to get his profile. He’s always been lean; the dress makes him look shapely as well without being overly tight.

“Nonsense,” Ian says. “You’re absolutely stunning.” He presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek and murmurs in his ear, “I’m glad you like it.”

Harry runs his hands down his sides again, studying himself. “Would you take me out like this?”

Ian’s breath catches, and Harry turns to look at him. Ian’s eyes are wide, but his voice is careful when he responds, “If you let me, absolutely.”

Harry considers the mirror again. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not quite the right look, is it?”

“I have a few wigs, if you’d like.”

Harry turns and raises his eyebrows. Ian doesn’t look embarrassed. He meets Harry’s expression with raised eyebrows of his own. “What?”

Harry shrugs. “Bald suits you. I’m not sure I could picture you with hair, fake or otherwise.”

Ian grins and slips into the bedroom. When he comes back, he’s sporting a blonde curled bob and an even wider smile. He strikes a pose, and Harry laughs. “I’m not sure that’s your colour.”

Ian takes it off his head and puts it on Harry’s. It’s not arranged neatly - his brown curls are still clearly visible in places - and Ian looks contemplative. “It’s not really your colour either, is it?” He leaves again and returns with two more wigs. Harry takes the blonde one off his head, and Ian offers him one in the same style, but with brunette curls that match his own much better. When he looks in the mirror again, his hair looks much the same as it normally would, only longer. He reaches up and cups the curls in his hand, feeling the bounce of them.

“Try the other one,” Ian suggests, and Harry swaps them out. The last one is a straight cropped bob with bangs, and the pitch black colour doesn’t do much for his complexion.

“Definitely the second one,” Ian says, as if reading his thoughts, and Harry swaps it back again, arranging it more properly this time to hide his natural hair. He looks good, he thinks. Pretty.

“I could go out like this,” he says aloud. He looks at Ian. “I wouldn’t mind. Maybe not out and about, but to your club. I’d go wearing this.” It surprises him, his willingness, but it’s a welcome surprise.

“Really?” Ian sounds hopeful but hesitant, like he’s still expecting Harry to say he’s joking.

Harry nods. He looks himself, yes, but he also looks...feminine. Just different enough that he thinks anyone who doesn’t know him well wouldn’t be able to tell he wasn’t a woman. And if Ian really knows how to do makeup properly…

“We could go to La Hirondelle.” Ian’s voice has turned eager, and at Harry’s confused look, he adds, “My club. That’s the official name. It’s what’s written on the paperwork, anyway. We could go. Tonight, if you’d like.”

“I’d like that,” Harry agrees, his voice shy to his own ears. He twirls one of the curls around his finger and bites his lip, meeting Ian’s eyes in the mirror, just to see what it looks like.

Very attractive, if the way Ian’s expression darkens is any indication. The other man sways forward, his hands coming up to Harry’s waist to tug him back against him. He nips briefly at Harry’s neck, pressing close so Harry can feel the heat of his body, and then murmurs, “I’ve got matching accessories for the dresses, if you like.”

Harry turns in his grip, relishing the unfamiliar feel of the dress swishing at his ankles. “I want to wear one of the other ones. The blue one.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I want to dance, and I’m not sure I can in this dress.” It’s a cocktail dress more than a party one, not really designed for clubs. Unless, of course, Harry intends to stand at a microphone and sing all night, which he does not.

“Blue one it is,” Ian says immediately, and he helps Harry out of the red dress and reaches for the blue.

Harry stops him. “I don’t want to wear it out of here. Your bellhop…”

“Don’t worry about Charlie.”

“I think he has it out for me,” Harry insists. He gives Ian a beseeching look. “I would be much happier changing somewhere else. I don’t want people to wonder why you walked in with a man and out with a woman.”

“We can go to the club early,” Ian suggests. “I’ve got a few things to check up on, and you can change there. How does that sound?”

“Perfect.”

Charlie, as it turns out, isn’t in the lobby when they leave together, a parcel tucked under Ian’s arm. The club is empty when they enter. It looks much bigger when it’s not crowded with dancers, Harry notes as Ian leads him into a backroom, one with a mirror and vanity lights.

“Our performers usually use this to get ready,” Ian explains. He unwraps the parcel and Harry exchanges his clothes for the blue dress. The velvet feels wonderful against his bare skin, but he smooths down the skirt and looks up at Ian. “It’s a bit short. I didn’t consider that.”

Ian gives him a look of understanding. “You can wear your pants under it if you like. Or…” He produced a pair of lacy black knickers, clearly designed more for function than the ones he’d seen on Ian, but still intended to be attractive. “It’s up to you,” Ian tells him, but Harry can hear the catch in his voice.

He takes the knickers.

Ian smiles. Once Harry’s slid them on, Ian guides him down to sit in front of the vanity. He picks up a small case and looks at Harry. “Want me to do your makeup?”

Harry nods. Fucks knows he wouldn’t be able to do it on his own. Ian settles himself between Harry and the mirror, opening the case and pulling out a little brush thing that Harry doesn’t know the name of. “Close your eyes.”

Harry does so, and Ian applies the eyeshadow to his lids. “Open,” Ian commands, and follows it up by nearly stabbing Harry’s eyes out first with an eyeliner pencil and then a mascara brush. It makes Harry’s eyes water and itch a little, and he blinks rapidly when Ian takes his hands away.

“Is it supposed to feel like this?” he asks.

“Feel like what?”

“Heavy. Itchy.”

Ian looks vaguely concerned. “Give it a minute. It should go away. Let me know if it doesn’t.” He busies himself with dusting Harry’s cheeks with rouge, which doesn’t itch, and gradually the sensations around his eyes fade. Lastly, Ian unscrews a tube of lipstick and tilts Harry’s chin up with one hand. “Open your mouth like this,” he instructs, and then demonstrates. Harry copies the motion, and Ian carefully traces his lips. “Rub them together,” he says, and Harry obeys. Ian leans closer, scrutinizing his work, and then leans back. “Beautiful. Want to see?”

Harry shakes his head, and Ian frowns, but before he can say anything, Harry says, “I want to see it all together. Not before.”

“Alright,” Ian agrees easily. He takes a handful of hairpins from the vanity and goes to work on Harry’s hair, tucking it down and into place before carefully arranging the wig over his tamed curls. He loops a pearl necklace that bears a slight resemblance to a noose around Harry’s neck, and then fixes a headband over the wig, straightening the plume of the feathers attached to the side near his temple. Then he pulls out a pair of stockings and low, strappy heels in a blue that matches the dress. “May I?”

Harry extends one foot, and Ian sinks to his knees. Harry inhales sharply as Ian rolls the stockings first up one leg, then the other, stretching them up to mid-thigh, where they’ll be covered by the dress. He picks up the first shoe, sliding it onto Harry’s foot and kissing the tip of it. He works his way up Harry’s shin with his mouth, pressing a kiss every other inch until he reaches Harry’s knee. Harry’s fingers bunch in his skirt, clenched tight into fists as he feels his body start to react, and Ian pulls away, grinning, and slips the other shoe onto Harry’s foot, giving his other leg the same treatment.

The blood is rushing in Harry’s ears so loudly, he doesn’t notice anyone entering the room until an American accent says, “Thought I heard someone back here. You hire new entertainment, Merlin?”

Ian straightens up, and Harry turns to look at Tequila, flushing. Tequila’s eyes widen in surprise, and he whistles low. “I’m guessing you ain’t gonna be singing for us tonight, are you?”

Harry shakes his head quickly, lifting his hand to steady the wig, but he needn’t have bothered; Ian had secured it well. “Pleasure to see you again, Tequila.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Hart.” Tequila makes a gesture as if to tip a hat. Harry wonders if he’s used to wearing one. Tequila looks at Ian. “Your work, I’m guessing? He looks good.”

Ian nods. “I think so too.” Harry half expects a leer, but Ian looks...fond is the only word Harry can come up with. Ian smiles at Harry. “Would you like to see now?”

Harry nods, and Ian moves out of the way of the mirror so Harry can see. He leans forward and takes a look at himself.

It’s not the same as looking at himself in Ian’s hotel room. The dress falls differently, so his chest is flatter, but he somehow looks even more feminine in spite of it, probably owing to Ian’s incredible makeup work. Sharp eyeliner wings out over smokey grey eyeshadow that makes his eyes appear larger and lighter. His cheeks are faintly pink around the apples, softening his features, and his lips are berry red. The feathers, resting weightlessly against his false brunette curls, are blue-green peacock feathers, and Harry wonders if Ian is making a joke, given that most of the time, Harry feels the exact opposite of a peacock. He hardly recognizes himself, and he touches a hand to his cheek, watching the reflection in the mirror do the same, just to make sure it really is him.

[](https://i.imgur.com/wxCe9wz.jpg)

“What do you think?” Ian asks softly.

Harry startles. He’d almost forgotten he wasn’t alone. He smiles up at Ian. “I look beautiful. You’re an artist.”

“An artist is only as good as his canvas.”

Harry laughs. “I think James might disagree with you there.”

“I got no complaint,” Tequila puts in, and Harry looks at him over his shoulder, frowning. “That’s my name,” Tequila explains. “James. Did Merlin not tell you that?”

“I didn’t have a reason to,” Ian says.

“I wasn’t talking about you,” Harry adds. “I have another friend named James.”

Tequila huffs in mock-indignation. “Bet I’m the better looking one,” he mutters, but his eyes are twinkling in a way that tells Harry he’s joking. He straightens the ends of his waistcoat, looks at Ian, and asks, “You gonna help me open today?”

“Since I’m here, I might as well,” Ian agrees. He straightens his pocket square and tugs his bowtie a little tighter - both shades of blue to match Harry’s dress against the grey of his suit - and plucks a hat off a hook on the wall. He winks at Harry as he settles the fedora on his head (and dear lord, Harry knows Ian isn’t really a gangster, but in the hat and suit he really looks the part) and heads back out into the club, pausing in the doorway to say, “Come out and join us whenever you feel like it.” He slips out, Tequila on his heels.

Harry gives himself another minute just looking in the mirror, breathing and getting up his nerve. He looks pretty. There’s no one beyond these doors who will judge him, no one in the club who thinks he’s strange for liking that he looks pretty, looks feminine. Slowly, because he’s never walked in heels before - it’s harder than it looks but not as hard as he expected - he gives himself a few paces to get used to the feeling of the shoes, and then hesitantly makes his way to the door and pushes it open.

The club is still empty, save for Tequila and Ian, of course. The former is bent over the bar, preparing for his shift, and the latter is unstacking chairs and wiping down tables. Harry stands in the middle of the dance floor for a moment, toying with his hands uncertainly, and then asks, “Is there any way I could be of assistance?”

Ian looks up at him, briefly surprised, and then smiles. “If you like.” He hands off a cleaning cloth to Harry. “Just take the chairs off the tables and give everything a wipe down.”

Harry does that, although he finds he has to go a bit slow, balancing in heels and moving around furniture. He drops the cloth at one point and hears a wolf-whistle from by the bar when he bends to retrieve it. When he looks up, Ian is giving Tequila a sharp look, the bartender grinning back at him. A flare of heat sparks in Harry’s stomach. Ian being possessive wasn’t something he anticipated, but he can’t say he dislikes the idea.

He maybe bends a bit more than necessary as he keeps working, but he does focus back on cleaning, so it takes him by surprise when a pair of hands land on his hips, drawing him back against a firm body. Ian’s brogue is thick with arousal as he murmurs in Harry’s ear, “I get the distinct impression you’re teasing me.”

Maybe it’s the dress, or the fact that Harry can feel Tequila’s eyes on them, but a shot of daring runs through Harry, and he arches back against Ian, satisfied at the way the other man’s breath hitches and his hips rock forward. He wraps one arm up around Ian’s neck, tilting his head back so his lips are just shy of Ian’s when he whispers, “It’s not teasing if I intend to follow through.”

He could swear Ian’s knees buckle, and the hands on his hips tighten, but before either of them can make a move, Tequila interjects, “Not that you two don’t make a pretty picture, but the rest of the staff is gonna show up soon, so if you’re gonna do anything, maybe move it to another room.”

They jerk apart, and Harry is pleased to see a faint colouring on Ian’s cheeks. Tequila grins and calls over to Harry, “I ain’t seen Merlin this hot and bothered in a good long while. Keep up the good work.”

Harry looks directly at Ian when he answers, “I intend to.”

The lust in Ian’s eyes softens to something more intimate, and he presses a brief kiss to Harry’s lips before pulling away altogether. “Tequila’s right,” he says. “Olivia will be here soon, and she’s bringing Morgana with her. I don’t think you want to put on a show for them.”

He’s right, of course. Harry returns to wiping down tables, looking over his shoulder at Ian to ask, “Who’s Morgana?”

Ian goes to answer, but he’s cut off by a ringing phone. Harry glances towards the one by the bar, but it’s silent. “Dressing room,” Tequila says. “Want me to answer it, boss?”

Ian nods, and Tequila disappears. After a moment, he pokes his head out again. “It’s about Jack, Merlin.”

Harry sees the physical shift on Ian’s face, a darkness settling over his expression before he smooths it out and smiles at Harry. “You don’t mind if I take this call, do you?”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t want to get in the way of your business.”

“I’ll be right back,” Ian tells him, and steps into the dressing room. Tequila returns to his spot behind the bar, and Harry takes a seat on one of the stools, looking back at the closed door.

Tequila follows his gaze. “Don’t worry about it. Merlin’s the secretive type. Everything’s on a need-to-know basis with everyone. It ain’t just you.”

“Am I really so transparent?”

Tequila laughs. “Just a little. And if it makes you feel better, I ain’t never seen Merlin keep any of his boys around as long as you.”

“I’ve only known him for a week.” It feels like it’s been longer. He props his elbows up on the bar. “He said Olivia was bringing Morgana. Who is she?”

“Our singer. At least for now. When Ging makes it over here, she’ll probably take over.”

“Ging...you mean Ginger?” Harry clarifies. “Ian said she was your…” Sweetheart was the word Ian had used, but Harry’s not sure what exactly that entails.

Tequila’s hand absentmindedly goes to his pocket, and he smiles. “She’s my girl. Well, not mine, she’d whoop my ass if she heard me call her that. But we love each other. I miss her something fierce. We send letters and shit when Merlin goes back and forth, but he don’t do that often. We both work for him, technically, so he puts a little extra in our pay so we can call each other once or twice a month. Long-distance phone calls ain’t cheap.”

“What do you mean, you ‘technically’ work for him?”

“I’m officially on Merlin’s payroll. Ging, well...she didn’t want to leave Kentucky just yet, you know? There was some personal stuff going on, some family business she had to take care of first. But she sang for Merlin before, and he promises that she’s got a job when she comes back. She’s marked as being on paid leave right now.” He shakes his head, smiles. “Merlin’s a real good man. You don’t find many like him around.”

“I’m starting to see that.” Harry glances towards the closed door again, even as his chest warms. He looks back to Tequila. “So, tell me about Ginger. What’s she like?”

Tequila looks like an eager puppy at the question, and he plants his hands on the bar. “She's amazing,” he says, and he sounds so damn enamored that Harry’s heart hurts. “She's so smart, and she's funny and beautiful and she doesn't put up with my shit and she...she makes me want to be a better person, you know?” He laughs, a little self-consciously, and rubs the back of his neck. “I know I sound like a goddamn cliche, but she's my whole world. I’d do just about anything for her.”

Harry smiles. “How did you meet?”

“During the war, actually. We're from round the same parts of Kentucky, more or less, but I never saw her ‘til I went overseas. Kind of funny, right? I was serving under this guy, we called him Champ, and she was his secretary. It was kind of unusual, you know, having her serve overseas in _any_ capacity, but she and Champ got a history. He vouched for her, said he wouldn’t go anywhere unless she was by his side. Anyway, she was always there whenever I had to talk to Champ, which was...well, a little more often than I probably should have done.” Tequila grins sheepishly. “I was a bit of a troublemaker. But she thought I was funny, and we got to talking a lot in our downtime. I was completely gone on her. Asked if I could court her after the war, and she said yes. It ain't easy ‘round our neck of the woods, but we made it work.”

“Wasn't easy?” Harry asked, before he realizes that's a personal question. “You don't have to-"

Tequila waves him off. “It's alright. She's colored. You know, black. A lotta folks don't like that, us being together. That's why we moved up to New York; people still ain't great there, but it's safer for us to be together, not to mention legal. That's actually how we met Merlin. We were out dancing, and I remembered seeing him when we were overseas.” Tequila gives Harry a wink. “He ain't an easy man to forget. Anyway, we got to talking, and when we mentioned we were looking for work in the area, he offered for us to work at one of his clubs for him. And he protected us, you know? Didn't let nobody say shit about us and get away with it.”

“Are you married?”

Tequila laughs. “I want to. Wanna put a ring on her finger, do right by her. We’ve been talking about it, too. It’s illegal just about everywhere, though, all sorts of hoops to jump through if we want to make it official. It’d be worth it, but we ain’t sure we want to go through all that fuss. Part of why I’m here now; Merlin’s been looking into marriage laws here, seeing if we could go about getting married on this side of the pond. Once things are settled back home, Ginger’ll join me here, and we’ll talk about maybe doing it for real.”

“Well, I wish you the best of luck,” Harry says. “If you really love her, you shouldn’t be barred from marrying her.”

Tequila’s eyes flick to the dressing room door. “What about you two? You and Merlin?”

Harry chokes and coughs. When he gets his breathing back under control, he says, “I think it’s a little early in our relationship to be discussing marriage.” It feels good to say the word relationship to someone. Tequila is easy to confide in, disarmingly charming and clearly not judgemental.

Tequila shrugs. “Maybe not marriage yet-”

“It’s been a week!”

“-but it still ain’t exactly legal for you two to…” He trails off and makes a clear and crude hand gesture. Harry wrinkles his nose. “To say nothing of actually being a couple.”

“While I appreciate the concern, I would prefer it if mine and Ian’s sex life was not a topic of conversation,” he says delicately. “But yes. Believe me, I’m aware of where Ian and I stand in relation to the law. But I’d like to think that where we stand in relation to each other is a bit more important than that.”

Tequila grins. “You’re real cute.” He looks like he’s about to say something else, but then gets sidetracked as the side door bangs open and Olivia strides in with another woman hot on her heels. “Olivia! Morgana! Looking good this fine afternoon, ladies.”

“Afternoon, Tequila,” Morgana says. She glances curiously at Harry. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced?”

Harry ducks his head and crosses his legs, slightly embarrassed. Before it occurs to him to lie, he offers her his hand. “Harry Hart.”

She doesn’t even bat an eyelash when she takes it. “Morgana DiAngelo. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hart.”

“Likewise.”

Olivia whistles, impressed. “You look good, Mr. Hart.”

“Harry,” he mumbles.

“What was that?”

Louder, he says, “If we’re going to be well enough acquainted that you can see me sporting this, I think we can be on a first name basis.”

Olivia grins. “Ian do your makeup, Harry? I make him do mine sometimes. He’s got a better eye for it than me. Trade off, I guess, since I’m better at pretty much every other aspect of fashion.” She indicates the suit she’s sporting. “I’ve never much been into the makeup and dresses look, although I can certainly appreciate when it’s been done well.”

Now that the conversation has shifted away from introductions, Morgana heads towards the dressing room, digging through her pocketbook as she goes. Before she reaches the door, Tequila calls out, “Can’t go in there yet.”

Morgana looks at him, irritated. “Tequila, I’m running late as it-”

“Merlin is on the phone.”

The shift that washes over her is fascinating, all the annoyance leaving her face, replaced by understanding and acceptance. “Will he be long?”

Tequila spares a glance at Harry before answering, “It’s about Jack, so who knows.”

“Does he…?” She indicates Harry and raises her eyebrows significantly.

Tequila shakes his head, but before he can open his mouth, Harry cuts in, “I am right here, you know. I know Ian’s business is private, but that doesn’t mean you have permission to speak as if I wasn’t present.”

Morgana laughs. “Oh, doll, if you weren’t here, we’d be having a very different conversation, trust me.”

“Are the girls bothering you?” Ian asks from the doorway.

Morgana breezes past him, planting a kiss on his cheek as she claims the space, and Ian joins them by the bar. “Sometimes I wonder if everyone around me knows about your business except me,” Harry tells him, drawing Ian closer and threading their fingers together.

Ian lifts their hands to his lips and kisses Harry's knuckles. “That’s because everyone around you works for me and you do not,” he explains between kisses. “My employees have to be informed. But I don’t want to bore you with business details.” He glances towards Olivia. “Is the band arriving soon?”

Olivia nods, snapping into professional mode. “They apologize for running a bit behind, and they’ll be here shortly.”

“Good.” Ian nods. “We open soon, and there’s not much point without a band, is there? Morgana can’t carry it on her own.”

“Don’t tell her that,” Olivia jokes, and everyone laughs. Ian takes the opportunity to lean across the bar and murmur something Harry can’t hear into Tequila’s ear. The American looks concerned for a brief moment before he replaces it with a mask of professionalism.

Harry’s not sure who this Jack is, or why he seems to have everyone is such a state of worry. But, curious as he is, he doesn’t ask. He has a sneaking suspicion that he’d rather not know.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for public sex, homophobia, mentions of torture, violence, and threat of violence against another character (also minor canon character death but its a bad guy so who cares).

Things quickly devolve into chaos. Between what feels like one blink and the next, people are rushing in through the side door, the musicians scrambling to catch back up to schedule, and broad-shouldered men Harry assumes are security station themselves around the room. Olivia unlocks the front door, and patrons start to trickle in.

Ian lays a hand on Harry's elbow where it's resting on the bar, and Harry lets Ian guide him over to his booth. “I'll get you a martini,” he says, and Harry smiles, pleased he remembered.

The band strikes up their first number and Morgana starts to croon. Harry vaguely recognizes her voice now as the same one he heard the other night. Ian returns to his side, a martini for Harry and a Scotch for himself set neatly on the table as he slides into the booth. Couples edge onto the dance floor, and cigarette smoke begins to cloud the corners of the room.

Ian drapes an arm around Harry's shoulder as he surveys the room, and Harry looks at it. Ian catches the direction of his gaze and goes to remove the touch. “Sorry, I-"

“Leave it.” At Ian’s look of surprise, Harry shrugs. “I highly doubt I know anyone here. If anyone questions me later, I can always say I have a twin sister.”

Ian laughs, and Harry smiles. “You love to pretend to be all shy and skittish, don’t you?” Ian says. “But I know the truth. You’re hiding a devious little mind behind those pretty brown eyes, aren’t you, love?”

With more confidence than he really feels (because only parts of that statement are even remotely true), Harry nips at Ian's earlobe and whispers, “Was there ever any doubt?”

“Aye, a bit,” Ian tells him, although his hand does curl into a fist on his knee in reaction to Harry's attempt at seduction, much to Harry’s satisfaction. “Much less now, though.”

“Amazing what difference a few days can make.” Even just two or three days ago, Harry doesn't think he would have even entertained going out in public like this, to say nothing of a week ago, before he met Ian. But Ian smiles and it chips away a little more at Harry's fear, leaving just the need to please him behind. And pleasing Ian mostly means pushing his own boundaries.

He really doesn't mind as much as he maybe should. Ian isn't asking anything of him, after all. And everything he’s doing for Ian, he’s doing for himself as well.

“We should dance,” he suggests.

Ian’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything, instead pulling Harry to his feet and swinging him out onto the dance floor before he can change his mind.

“I don’t know how to dance very well,” Harry tells him, loud in Ian’s ear to be heard over the noise. “Especially not in these shoes.”

“Can you waltz?”

Harry looks sheepish, blushing slightly. “That’s about all I can do.”

“Then follow my lead, and you should be fine.” And he guides them into position - unfamiliar for Harry, as he’s always danced lead, never follow - and sweeps Harry into something that feels like a waltz, but somehow more sensual.

Up close like this, Harry can see the feathers tucked into the brim of Ian’s hat, and he’s amused to see they match: there’s a dark brown one, probably a falcon or hawk (Roxy would know but Harry can only speculate), but it’s accented by a clipped peacock feather like the ones in Harry’s headband. He reaches up and flicks at the feather. “Your idea of a joke?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Peacock feathers. We match.”

Ian grins at him. “Aye, we do. I’ll make a peacock of you yet, Harry Hart. You’re too stunning to hide the way you do. You need to learn to strut.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Harry laughs as Ian twirls him. He stumbles a bit in his heels, but Ian catches him smoothly and dips him down, Harry gasping in surprise and delight as his hand, thrown out to steady himself, brushes against the floor before he’s whisked back to his feet.

“Where did you learn to dance?”

“I’m a man of many talents,” Ian says, like that’s an answer. At Harry’s look, he adds, “Mostly in the states. Never took classes, but you’d be surprised how eager people are to teach if you ask them nicely.”

Harry snorts. “Like anyone would turn down having you in their arms.”

“As always, your faith in my seductiveness is highly flattering,” Ian says modestly, as if Harry hadn’t once turned down being in his arms in this very building, and then does something with his hips that makes Harry want to sink to his knees.

The feeling disappears when he catches sight of a familiar head of brown hair on the other side of the dance floor, and he stops in his tracks, nearly tripping Ian, who pauses and looks concerned. “Everything alright?”

“What’s Roxy doing here?”

Ian follows his gaze, and his posture relaxes. “Olivia invited her, I imagine.” The sea of dancers shifts, and Harry can see that’s likely the case, given that the two women are dancing together. “Why?”

Harry shakes his head. “I just didn’t expect her to be here, that’s all.” He feels suddenly self-conscious, done up as he is in the middle of the room where anyone can see him. He tucks his shoulders in, trying to make himself smaller.

“Hey now, none of that.” Ian nudges his posture back into something, if not more relaxed then at least less timid.

“People are looking,” Harry hisses at him.

“They’re looking because you are gorgeous.” Ian pulls Harry to him, a little closer than the song necessitates. “Every single person in this room wants someone as pretty as you on their arm or in their bed. And they’re looking because they’re jealous, because you’re here with me and not them.”

Harry tucks his face into the crook of Ian’s neck just in time for the song to shift to something slower, and Ian wraps his arms around Harry, swaying gently. Against Ian’s skin, Harry whispers, “You really think so?”

“Aye, love, I really do,” Ian says, and his voice sounds like a promise. “No one is judging you.” He untucks Harry’s head and tips his chin up slightly. “You are the most stunning creature I’ve ever held.”

Harry searches his eyes, looking for the lie, but there is none, and he throws himself into Ian’s embrace, trying to pour all the emotion he feels from that knowledge into the kiss.

Ian cups his cheek and cards his fingers carefully through the wig, the lightest of pressure against Harry’s head. He doesn’t try to deepen the kiss, just holds him there, parting his lips when Harry licks past them, letting him dictate the pace. Harry’s heart is racing, completely in contrast with the slow song, and he bites down on Ian’s bottom lip, rocking into him in an attempt to convey to Ian what he wants.

Ian gets the message, his fingers tightening on Harry’s hip, and he coos against Harry’s lips, “Want to get out of here, love?”

Harry nods. Ian takes his hand, and together they leave the dance floor.

They make it out the side door and into the alleyway before Harry decides he doesn’t want to wait and pushes Ian back against the wall, kissing him viciously, working a hand between them to grope at Ian’s crotch.

Ian laughs against his lips. “Easy, love.”

Harry snarls, possessed by the sudden urge of _want_. “Trousers off, now.”

Ian’s eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. He glances both ways, and then nudges Harry backwards. “Follow me.”

He guides Harry roughly into a little alcove that Harry hadn’t noticed, tucked into the alley and lit by a bright yellow light somewhere over their heads, deep enough that anyone looking from the street won’t be able to see them. Harry purrs as Ian shoves him back against the brick, pinning Harry by his hips and grinding against him. His voice is low and rough and shoots sparks of arousal through Harry when he growls, “If you want to be rough, I can be rough.”

Harry drags Ian to him, knocking his hat off to land somewhere behind them as he kisses him, biting into his mouth. One of Ian’s hands works its way under his dress, and Harry shudders into the touch. “Jesus, you’re lovely like this,” Ian says.

“Fuck me,” Harry tells him. It is not a request.

Ian doesn’t waste time. He goes to his knees, rucking up Harry’s dress and mouthing at the front of his panties, straining with the effort of holding his erection. Harry digs his fingers into Ian’s scalp, and Ian growls, tearing the panties off in one sharp move.

Harry finds it in himself to weakly protest, “I rather liked those.”

“I’ll get you another pair.” And Ian bites at Harry’s hip and slides a finger inside him.

Another, instinctual protest bubbles up in the back of Harry’s throat, choked off when he realizes that Ian’s hand is slick with lube. He tips his head back against the bricks and moans in pleasure as Ian crooks the finger. “Came prepared, did you?”

Ian doesn’t answer, just gives Harry another finger and mouths at his cock, wetting the shaft with his lips and tongue but not sucking on it. All rational thought bleeds from Harry’s head, replaced by pure pleasure, spiking sharply when Ian’s clever fingers find his prostate and rub firmly over it.

He scrabbles at Ian’s shoulders, managing, “ _Please_.”

Ian chuckles against his skin and Harry sobs. “Patience, love,” Ian tells him. “One more.”

Harry doesn’t want one more, he wants Ian’s cock, but he’s not in much of a position to do anything about it. Ian’s hand is hard on his hip, keeping him still, so Harry accepts the third finger and whimpers, trying his best to rock back against Ian’s hand. “I’m ready,” he insists, then remembers and begs, “Ian, please. I need your cock in me. Fuck me, please, I want you so badly.”

Ian shudders below him and withdraws, unbuttoning his trousers and shoving them down, then fumbling quickly for a condom and sheathing his cock, stroking the lube over it. He shifts his grip on Harry, and in one smooth, surprising move, lifts him up against the wall, forcing Harry to wrap his arms and legs around Ian to stay upright. Ian shifts, positions his cock at Harry’s entrance, and then lets gravity do the work for him.

Harry cries out as he drops down, Ian’s entire cock slamming into him in one motion. He clings to Ian’s shoulders, burying his face in his neck, and Ian holds him still, pressed against the bricks, cooing, “Take a minute, love, it’s alright.”

Harry waits a minute. Three fingers really wasn’t enough; Ian’s large and he feels like he’s tearing Harry open. He blinks tears out of his eyes before Ian can see them, hoping his makeup isn’t running. Ian strokes his cheek and hair, whispering, “I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Are you alright? Do you want to stop?”

“No!” Harry protests immediately. He pushes himself away from Ian’s neck, swallowing hard and blinking quickly. Ian looks concerned, but Harry gives him a reassuring smile, “It’s fine. Just…” He laughs, a little self-consciously. “Next time, I’ll try to remember patience.”

Ian smiles and rubs his nose against Harry’s affectionately. “You okay to move?”

The sharp feeling has faded, replaced by more of a dull ache, and Harry clenches around Ian’s cock experimentally. Ian bites back a moan, and Harry grins. “Should I take that as a yes?” Ian asks.

“Yes,” Harry agrees, nuzzling into Ian’s neck and pressing kisses along it, enjoying the faint smudges his lipstick leaves behind on Ian’s skin.

Ian adjusts his grip and rolls his hips up in a careful thrust. Harry clings to Ian’s shoulders a little harder, giving him some leverage to drop down the next time Ian thrusts up, and he murmurs, “I’m not going to break. I asked you to fuck me, and I expect to be satisfied.”

Ian laughs. “Far be it from me to deny you satisfaction.” He sets a sharper pace, bunching up Harry’s dress around his waist, pinning him hard enough that Harry’s sure he’ll have bruises tomorrow. It’s alright; Harry is leaving a matching set on Ian’s shoulders, bouncing back down against him every time Ian slams into him, shifting the angle slightly until Ian manages to nail his prostate, and Harry throws his head back and cries out, completely forgetting where they are.

“Right there,” Harry gasps out. “Jesus, yes, just like that.”

Ian takes one hand off him to wrap around Harry’s cock instead, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts, keeping the angle so he can continue to hit Harry’s prostate. It’s overwhelming in the best way, and Harry whimpers against the onslaught of sensation.

“Come on,” Ian purrs. “You’re so close, aren’t you? Tell me what you need love. I want to make you come.”

Harry shudders at the low pitch of his voice, panting as he nears the edge. His fingernails bite into the fabric of Ian’s suit and he clenches hard, working himself against Ian’s cock with a fervour. Ian twists his wrist on the next downstroke, catching the crown of Harry’s cock just right, and he spills over Ian’s fist with a loud gasp.

Ian sets him down carefully, both breathing heavily. He pulls out, and before he can do anything else, Harry reaches down and wraps one hand around Ian’s still-hard cock. Ian plants a hand on the wall to steady himself as Harry slowly strokes him, fluttering his fingers. “Your turn,” Harry says, and steers Ian around so it’s his back that’s pressed to the wall. Ian lets him, and Harry sinks to his knees.

He peels the condom off of Ian’s cock without a protest from his partner, dropping it on the ground and wrapping his lips around the head. He tongues at the slit, which is absolutely dripping with precum, and hums thoughtfully, sliding down a little to take more of Ian’s cock in, setting a gentle rhythm as he gets used to the feeling of Ian in his mouth, thick and hot and throbbing. Ian isn’t aggressive anymore; he settles a hand on Harry’s head, fingers curling into the wig, biting down on the other to muffle his groans.

Harry pulls off and looks up at him. “I want to hear you.” He’s half-forgotten where they are, all his needs being driven by desire.

Ian blinks, and then removes his hand from his mouth, and Harry goes back down on him, this time taking him all the way to the root. Ian lets out a long moan, and Harry hums happily, the vibrations making Ian tighten his grip and grit his teeth. Harry isn’t trying to draw it out; he wants to make Ian come, and he redoubles his efforts, bobbing up and down on his cock enthusiastically, not swallowing so his mouth gets slick with spit, dripping out around the corners, and then all at once deepthroating him, pressing his lips to the base of Ian’s cock and holding it there, swallowing around the length, and then scraping his teeth lightly over it as he pulls back.

That’s what does it, he thinks. At the hint of teeth, Ian grunts and comes, pulsing into Harry’s mouth. Harry sucks him through it and then pulls off, spitting the come out onto the ground next to him. Ian doesn’t seem to mind; he leans back against the wall, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he gulps in lungfuls of air.

Harry wipes his mouth on the back on his hand and then stands up, smoothing down his skirt and straightening his wig. Ian reaches down to tuck himself back into his trousers, and Harry can’t deny that seeing the red rings of his lipstick around Ian’s cock makes his own twitch again in interest.

“That was fucking spectacular,” Ian grins, and Harry laughs. He wraps his arms around Ian’s neck and kisses him briefly. Ian rubs their noses together, and his eyes are bright in the pale yellow lamplight. “You are a marvel.”

“Huh.” Harry stiffens at the unfamiliar voice. “Is that so? Because from here, it just looks like you’ve found some street trash to suck your cock.”

Ian looks over Harry’s shoulder and forcibly pushes Harry behind him. Harry understands his own tension - being caught like this hadn’t even crossed his mind, but now that it’s happened his heart is thundering like a racehorse - but he doesn’t understand the anger burning behind Ian’s eyes.

Although he’s shrouded mostly in shadows, just beyond the glow of the light, Harry can tell that the man standing between them and where the alcove meets the alley is American, based on the accent. He has a thick mustache, a pair of cowboy boots, and a pistol set at his hip, like something out of a Western film. Harry eyes the gun nervously, glancing up at Ian, hoping for reassurance.

“Jack,” Ian says, his calm voice belied by the sharpness of the word. “You have a lot of nerve, showing your face around here.” Harry is suddenly very glad he hadn’t asked about Jack before. He doesn’t think he wants to know what this is about.

Jack steps forward and out of the shadows, and Harry gasps as he comes fully into view. His face is horrible to look at, his eye blackened and swollen, his cheeks covered in gashes that look like they’ve hardly begun to heal. He gives Ian a smile that chills Harry to his core. “Why? Don’t want me showing off your handiwork to all your lovely patrons? To your slut?”

“You should go,” Ian tells Harry. His voice is low, serious, and it sends another shiver of fear skating down Harry’s spine.

“No, stay,” Jack says. The sparkle in his eye looks downright sinister. He addresses Ian, “She should be here for this, see what sort of a man you really are.” He pauses, and his grin widens, “Is it a she? I know you got all sort of sick fetishes. Not that I'm surprised, given what you do for a living.”

Ian’s jaw twitches. He’s clenching it hard enough that Harry can see the slight strain in his neck. “He’s got nothing to do with this. Harry, go.”

“No, really,” Jack says, and he raises the revolver, cocking it with an audible sound. “Stay.” He levels the gun at them, and Ian pushes Harry a little farther behind him.

“So why’d you do it, Jack?” Ian asks. “Why’d you sell us out?” The part of Harry’s brain that isn’t panicking recognizes that Ian is buying time, trying to find a way out.

Jack laughs. “If you couldn’t get shit out of me the other night, what makes you think I’ll say anything now?”

Ian raises his hands, a gesture of surrender, even as his eyes harden. “You have all the power here, Jack. I just want to know why. If you’re going to shoot me-”

“Shoot you?” Jack whistles and shakes his head. “I don’t want to shoot you. Poppy don’t want that sort of mess to clean up. Although I have been authorized to use extreme force if necessary.” He smirks. “Please, feel free to make it necessary.”

“Ian,” Harry finds the words that have been lodged in his throat. “What’s going on?”

Jack laughs, raising his eyebrows. “You didn’t tell him, Merlin? Your fairy boy is good enough to suck your cock, but he’s not good enough to know what he’s getting himself into?”

Harry tenses, whether at the slur or at the implication of what’s going on, he’s not sure. Ian takes it as the former, snapping, “Don’t call him that.”

“What’re you going to do about it?” Jack takes another casual step forward, and Ian matches it. Harry remains pressed against the wall. He’s cowering and he’s not ashamed to admit it.

“Tell me why, Jack,” Ian says again. “Why betray us? What does Poppy have that we haven’t given you?”

“Shoot, you really don’t get it, do you? It ain’t about what you or Poppy do or don’t have. This whole damn business? It’s just a means to an end. And, well, I have to say, not working for a goddamn faggot is a real perk.”

Something in Ian snaps, and he lunges forward. It must take Jack by surprise - Harry certainly wasn’t expecting it - because he doesn’t get a chance to fire his weapon before Ian is wrestling it away from him, slamming him sideways into the wall and pressing the barrel of the gun right up against the underside of his jaw. “Fucking call me that again,” Ian snarls, “and see where it gets you.”

Jack gives a weak laugh. “You’re not going to pull the trigger. Couldn’t do it four days ago, so why would you do it now?”

“Try me.”

“Don’t know what it is about fairies like you that make you so damn soft. Taking in all your _pets_. Pity Ginger isn’t on this side of the pond. Think Tequila would like to watch me show her what a real man looks like? Bet that bitch looks real good with a cock sho-”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Harry doesn’t recognize the bang for what it is at first. Distantly, he hears screaming, but it feels very far away. All he can do is stare as Ian steps away from Jack and the other man’s body falls to the ground, a puddle of red spilling out around him. Ian drops the gun next to the body and takes a step towards him. “Harry? Love?”

Harry shrinks back, but there’s nowhere to go. “You…” He can’t form a sentence, can’t think what to say, so he states the obvious. “ _You killed him_.” His brain feels numb, like nothing since his orgasm has been quite real, just some sort of strange, horrifying fantasy turned very, very wrong.

“Harry-” Ian takes another step forward, and Harry dodges sideways, edging around him, watching him carefully in case he tries to make a grab for him. Ian stops moving, but he holds his hands out like he’s trying to calm a spooked animal. “It’s alright, Harry. Everything is alright.”

There’s a manic sort of laugh, and it takes Harry a moment to realize it’s coming from him. “You just shot a man. Things are not _alright_.”

Ian reaches out for him, and Harry lurches backwards, out into the alley, putting as much space between them as possible. “Don’t touch me.”

“Harry,” Ian says again, and if Harry didn’t know better, he’d say Ian sounded heartbroken. He keeps backing away from him, and Ian starts moving again, following him at a distance.

Olivia bursts through the side door just as Harry passes it. “Merlin? What happened, I heard a gunsho-” She cuts herself off abruptly, taking in Harry, who is seriously debating how fast he can run in heels or if Ian’s long legs mean he’ll catch him the moment Harry turns his back.

“Had an altercation,” Ian tells Olivia without taking his eyes off Harry.

“Altercation?”

“Jack.”

Her eyes go wide, and she nods. “I’ll get Tequila.” Before she can step back inside, Roxy pokes her head out, looking alarmed. She catches sight of Harry and blinks, surprise temporarily overriding the fear in her eyes, but the moment she opens her mouth, Harry takes a risk and flees.

“Harry, wait!” He hears Ian calling after him, but it sounds distant, removed from him. He passes people in the street, several concerned men and women calling after him. He hears “Miss? What’s wrong?” a half a dozen times before he reaches his flat, bolting up the stairs and locking the door behind him.

He bursts into tears, unable to hold them back any longer, even as the numbness continues to wash over his body. He kicks off the heels, stumbling forward, off balance, and makes his way into the bathroom. The mirror mocks him: lipstick is smeared clear across his cheek, mascara is dripping down his face, and the wig is lopsided, revealing pinned curls underneath. Harry snatches it off his head and throws it across the room, crying harder. He gets a grip around the necklace, pearls like a noose, and for a brief flash imagines Ian’s hands on him, pulling it tight. He wrenches that off too, and it joins the wig on the floor.

His hands are shaking.

He fumbles with the tap, hot water splashing into the bathtub. He sits on the edge and pulls off his tights, ripped at the knees from kneeling for...bile rises up in his throat, and he tears them further in his haste to get them off. The dress goes over his head, dropped into a puddle on the floor, darkened with dirt where he’d been pressed against the wall and stained at the hem with his come. For a moment, he thinks he can see Ian’s handprints in the blue velvet, almost the same colour they are on his hips.

He turns off the tap and sits in the scalding hot bathwater until it goes cold.


	13. Chapter 13

Harry seriously debates whether or not it’s worth it to see who’s there when the pounding on his door starts. After a minute, Roxy’s voice rings through. “Come on, Harry, open up.”

Harry curls up into a ball under the blanket. He doesn’t want to talk to Roxy right now. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

The knocking doesn’t stop. “Open up, or I’ll break the door down,” Roxy shouts at him.

It’s a bit excessive, considering she knows where he keeps the spare key, but Harry absolutely believes she’ll do it. He drags himself out of bed, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, and trudges to the door. He unlocks it and drops into his desk chair, slumping forward and pulling the blanket a little tighter around him. There’s the jiggling of metal as Roxy tries the knob again and finds it unlocked, opening the door surprisingly gently for all her banging, and closing it behind her. She observes him “You look like shit.”

It is nothing compared to how he feels. Roxy finds the other chair in his flat and drags it over, straddling it backwards and propping her elbows on the back. “You want to talk about it?”

“About what?” Harry mumbles, avoiding her gaze.

“About what happened last night. At the club?”

Harry considers drawing the blanket up over his head too. “No, I don’t.”

“So, you don’t want to talk about why I saw you wearing a dress? Or why you’ve currently got day-old makeup caked on your face? Or why Ian apparently sounds Scottish now? Or how about the _actual gunshot_ , and how I saw you running away from Ian after it?”

Tears prick at Harry’s eyes again, and his throat closes up. The sound of the gun firing echoes in his ears. He forces it away. “No,” he repeats, “I don’t want to talk about it. About any of it.”

“Is he the man you were talking about the other night? The Scottish one you were with before Ian? Or...I guess not before if they’re the same person.”

“I said I don’t want to-”

“Talk about it, yeah.” Roxy backs down. “Are you alright, at least?”

The dam breaks, and Harry chokes on a sob. “Of course I’m not fucking alright! I just watched my...my...fuck, I don’t even know what he is, but I watched him shoot a man in front of me. How the hell am I supposed to be alright?”

Roxy’s eyes go wide. “So he really did shoot someone?”

“Didn’t Olivia tell you anything?” Harry won’t admit to the spite in his voice. “I thought you two were together.” God, that’s just going to make whatever happens next even more complicated, isn’t it?

“She didn’t tell me anything about what happened. Said it was business related, and that she was going to contact the police.” Roxy bites her lip. “I didn’t really believe her, but I have to believe she wouldn’t do anything really bad. She and Ian...they’re good people.”

Harry’s stomach makes an attempt to heave itself into his throat. “How can you murder someone and still be a good person? How can you torture someone and not be...?” He doesn’t know what he’s trying to imply. His brain is struggling to connect the two images: Ian, laughing in his bed, soft and pliant, and the man who held a gun to someone’s head and pulled the trigger.

Roxy looks doubtful, but she says, “Maybe we should hear their side of the story before we rush to conclusions?”

“Or maybe we should call the police.” Roxy just looks at him, and Harry’s heart settles, heavy and aching, back down in his chest. Neither of them want to call the police. And even if he did want to, what is Harry supposed to tell them? Ian is a successful businessman - Harry doesn’t think that’s _just_ code for whatever it is he does to make torturing and killing people a viable business practice, which means he’ll have at least a little political sway - and Harry is a nobody from a family who will immediately sever what weak ties they have left if anything even remotely scandalous comes to light. Who exactly are the police going to believe? And it would be all too easy for Ian to expose Harry’s secrets, the dresses and the sex, and get off scot free. So no. No police. He’s not about to take that risk.

Roxy glances at the shoes, still where they fell when Harry kicked them off last night, and then towards the bathroom, where the remainder of his outfit is still lying on the floor. She looks back at him, and then stands up and gets a flannel, wetting it and coming back, tilting Harry’s head up and wiping away the traces of makeup.

Softly, she asks, “Is this something he made you do?”

Harry shakes his head, nearly getting a wet cloth in his eye for it. “No,” he says, stilling again while she works. “No, he suggested it, but I...I wanted to do it.” He feels a wave of shame crash over him, and he closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see Roxy look disgusted. She’s practically family, and he doesn’t want to lose her. He’s losing enough as it is. It hurts more than he expected.

Roxy’s hands stay gentle on his face. Her voice is soothing, reassuring when she says, “You looked pretty. I don’t think I could have pulled off that dress half as well.”

A laugh bubbles up in Harry’s throat against his will, and he opens his eyes again. Roxy giggles with him, and the shame fades a bit, replaced by relief. “You don’t think it’s strange?” Harry asks.

“Harry, I wear trousers on a regular basis. I’m not going to judge you for putting on a dress. Especially when you’ve got the legs for it.” They dissolve into giggles again, and for the first time since last night, Harry feels like he can’t breathe from joy, rather than fear.

Roxy smooths his hair back, setting the flannel aside. “We’re all here for you,” she tells him. “Me, and Uncle Alistair, and James, and Amelia. You’ve got a whole family looking out for you, Harry. I know you don’t like to talk about this sort of stuff, but if you ever do, we’re here to listen.”

Harry smiles at her softly. “Thank you.”

She presses a kiss to his forehead and stands up. “Any time. I have to get to work, but I’ll check in on you this afternoon, alright?”

“Alright.” She leaves, and Harry goes back to bed, but he doesn’t feel as heavy as when he woke up this morning.

He sleeps most of the day. He’s unusually tired, like his body is trying to reset after the shock. He doesn’t even try to touch his writing; the thought of it makes him queasy. He may have to reconsider Eliza’s love interest.

He only gets up to go to the bathroom and once to get the mail. His parents have sent him his allowance, and he tucks it in the middle drawer of his writing desk with a mental note to visit Amelia at some point in the near future to pay off his tab.

The phone rings just once, around two in the afternoon. Harry almost doesn’t answer it. He hadn’t given Ian his number, but it wouldn’t be difficult for the other man to find. He eventually does pick up the receiver with the intention of hanging up immediately if he hears Ian’s voice on the other end.

Instead, it’s Alistair. “Harry? How are you?”

Harry frowns. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” He successfully manages to keep the suspicion out his voice. He’s not sure why Alistair or James would know about what happened at the club, unless…

“Roxy told us you were feeling a bit under the weather today,” Alistair says. “You aren’t sick, are you? James’s birthday is just around the corner, and you know how he likes to kick up a fuss. He’ll be terribly upset if you have to miss it.”

“James’s birthday is weeks away.”

“And you know how he is.” Alistair heaves a sigh.

Harry chuckles. “I’m not sick, and I’ll certainly be feeling better in time to fawn over James.”

“That’s good to hear.” There’s a pause, and then, “You haven’t heard from Ian by any chance, have you?”

Jesus, how much does he know? Alistair plays everything very close to the vest, so Harry has no idea what Roxy, Olivia, or Ian himself might have told Alistair. “I haven’t spoken to him today,” Harry says carefully. “Why would I? You’re more his friend than I am.” It’s not a lie. Whatever Harry and Ian are - were - friend is not the most appropriate word for it.

“Olivia came in earlier to sit for James while he works on her portrait. She seemed a bit distracted; I just wondered if Ian had anything to do with it. You two seemed to get on well, so I thought I’d ask.”

Harry breathes a sigh of relief, although not directly into the phone. “No, I haven’t spoken to him,” he says. “I’d best be going now. Things to do. I’ll speak to you later.” He hangs up and goes back to sleep.

True to her word, Roxy stops by after work, although this time she uses the spare key to let herself in rather than try to break his door down. Harry can tell she came right to him because she’s still in her dock-worker clothes, and she smells of fish. That doesn’t stop her from sitting by his bed and poking him. “Feeling any better?”

Harry shrugs. “Have you seen Olivia today?” he asks in spite of himself.

Roxy hesitates, and then nods. “She stopped by for a while on my shift. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk about last night, but she did mention that Ian feels awful.”

“Alistair telephoned and implied something similar.” Why is the question. Well, the more important question is if his concern is sincere, followed by why if it is.

“You really should talk to him. At least hear him out before you decide whether or not to wash your hands of him entirely. It was pretty obvious he made you happy.”

Harry pauses to consider that. “Really?”

Roxy nods. “I don’t think anyone who didn’t know you would be able to tell why, but you seemed...I don’t know, brighter this past week than you have in a long time.”

Harry sighs. “He was lying to me the whole time.”

“Maybe it wasn’t all lies.”

“My dear, you’re giving him too much credit.”

“And you’re giving him too little,” Roxy counters. She puts a hand on his shoulder, “Harry, I love you like a brother. A really, really old brother-”

“Thanks.”

“-and if you decide you don’t want anything to do with him, I’ll support that, and I’ll make sure Uncle Alistair and James do, too. But I really think you should talk to him first. Olivia says she’s never seen him this upset over anything.”

Harry doesn’t want to think about Ian being upset over what happened. It’d be far easier if Ian _wasn’t_ upset, if he didn’t care, because then Harry wouldn’t have to feel bad about wanting to break away from him. Or...he thinks that’s what he wants. “I’ll think about it,” he says grudgingly.

Roxy smiles, “Thank you.” She kisses his cheek and leaves the apartment, calling over her shoulder, “You can’t spend the rest of your life in bed, Harry. Stop moping like a child and do something.”

Harry is not moping like a child. He is moping like an adult, thank you very much. But the next day, he takes her advice. After all, she is right. He can’t spend the rest of his life in bed.

The rest seems to have done him good, though. The shock has worn off, replaced by simmering anger at Ian for deceiving him. He thinks it must be radiating off him; people give him slightly nervous looks when they pass him in the street, and when he pushes open the door to Miller’s Treasures, Amelia takes one look at him and says, “Who ruffled your feathers?”

“Good morning to you too, Ameli. I’m doing well today, and you?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Seriously, why do you look like you want to murder someone?”

The mention of murder turns Harry’s stomach, and he winces. “I don’t want to murder anyone. I just...I want answers but I’m not sure I want to hear them.” It’s the best way he can describe how he feels about Ian right now; he feels like he’s owed an explanation, but collecting on that could just make everything a thousand times worse.

“Answers from who? From Mr. Grey? Did you two have a falling out?”

Harry laughs bitterly. “You could say that.” Then he frowns. “How did you know?”

“He came in yesterday.”

Harry’s heart stops and his chest gets tight. “What? Why?”

Amelia gives half a shrug. “Looking for you. He remembered from the other day that you were supposed to pay me off this week, and he wanted to know if I had any idea when you’d be in.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth. That I wasn’t sure. Could have been any time this week. He looked a bit put out.”

Harry fidgets, looking towards the door. “You don’t think he’ll be back, do you?”

Amelia studies him curiously. Her voice is carefully level when she responds, “I don’t know. Would it be bad if he was?”

Harry really doesn’t know, so he avoids her eyes and doesn’t answer. He takes the money he owes her and slides it across the counter. “That should be enough for the books.”

Amelia flicks through it briefly, not really counting it. She never does, not with him. “So what are you going to do now?”

“Well, I thought I’d go out for a bit of a stroll, maybe see Alistair and James, you know his birthday is coming up and he likes to feel important-”

“What are you going to do about Mr. Grey?” she interrupts. “I got the feeling he was very interested in seeing you.”

That seems to be a recurring theme in Harry’s life. “I still haven’t decided.”

“For what it’s worth,” Amelia tells him, “it’s obvious he makes you happy. Or...made you happy, I guess.”

“He did,” Harry agrees. “That’s why I haven’t decided yet.” He turns to leave; the shop feels too stifling all of a sudden.

He’s halfway out the door when Amelia asks, “How’s the novel coming?”

Harry pauses. Without looking back, he says, “I’m taking a bit of a break. There’s a plot twist I wasn’t quite expecting.” And he lets the door swing shut behind him, the bell ringing merrily on the other side.


	14. Chapter 14

All things considered, when Harry walks into Huntsman Tailors two days later for his first fitting, it really shouldn’t surprise him that Ian is sitting on the sofa. After all, Ian was there when it was scheduled; he knew exactly what time Harry was supposed to be there.

But it is a surprise. Ian hadn’t called. He hadn’t shown up at Harry’s flat. He hadn’t tried to get in contact through Roxy or James or Alistar or gone back to Miller’s. Harry had checked. So to see him sitting there, one long leg folded over the other, hands fidgeting in his lap, is a little bit of a surprise.

His eyes widen when he sees Harry, as if equally surprised that Harry is here, and the fact that there’s hope in his expression makes Harry want to turn around and run out the door.

Ian stands slowly, with the air of a man approaching a spooked animal who might either lash out or flee at any given moment. “I wasn’t sure you were going to come back.”

“Neither was I,” Harry says. He almost hadn’t. He can’t afford a suit like this, not on his own, not right now. But maybe, subconsciously, he’d known Ian would be here. And now that’s he’s had time to cool down, he thinks he’s ready for the answers he wants. Even if they aren’t what he wants to hear.

Bridgemont steps into the room, glancing first at Ian, then at Harry. Mildly, he asks, “Everything alright, gentlemen?” There’s the tiniest note of command in his voice, a demand that no one cause a scene in his shop, even as concern - for which one of them, Harry isn’t sure - paves over it as the dominant emotion.

Harry clears his throat and looks away from Ian, although he can still feel the other man’s eyes on him. “Everything’s fine, Bridgemont. I’m here for my fitting.”

“Yes, of course sir.” Bridgemont bows his head and gestures Harry into fitting room one.

Ian is still watching him when the door closes.

“I can’t help noticing, Mr. Hart,” Bridgemont says conversationally as he gets to work, “that you seem rather tense.”

“It can’t have anything to do with the fact that you’re about to stick needles into me, could it?” Harry jokes, and Bridgemont smiles.

“I’ll be careful,” he says, and intentionally pokes Harry with a pin.

Harry glares at him, but there’s no heat behind it. He looks towards the ceiling. “Things are...complicated now.” He hadn’t intended to talk about it, but there’s something trustworthy about Bridgemont, something compelling Harry to open up, to talk about the one thing he hasn’t been able to fully vocalize yet.

“Between you and Mr. Grey?”

Harry nods. “He’s a good man, isn’t he?”

“I think so. But then, I suppose I don’t know him especially well. People are never so straightforward as they appear.”

“But you’re his tailor.”

“Are you’re his…” Bridgemont trails off and raises his eyebrows significantly.

Harry looks away again. “I don’t know what we are.” If you can’t tell your tailor...

“Perhaps you should ask him.”

“That seems to be the general consensus,” Harry agrees. “But...say he did something. Something impossible to deny and very, very difficult to justify. Something not just illegal but immoral as well.”

“Morality is a looser concept than most would like, and just because the law says something is wrong does not make it so.”

Harry frowns, frustrated. That wasn’t the answer he’d wanted. “Your morality would have to be very loose to justify something like this. And if he can-” Harry cuts himself off before the word “murder” passes his lips. “If he has no qualms about doing something so blatantly immoral, how am I supposed to trust anything he says?” Whatever explanation Ian has to give, Harry has no guarantee it will be a truthful one.

“I don’t know, sir,” Bridgemont says diplomatically. “But if you do not ask, you cannot decide whether or not he is lying. And is that not really a testament to who a man is? If, once cornered, he keeps lying, or if he decides to come clean, and then either misplaces the blame or accepts it himself.”

“I thought the measure of a man was how he treated those lesser than himself?”

“There are multiple ways to measure a man,” Bridgemont says, “and I should know. Inches or centimeters, it hardly matters in the end. The cloth is the same length.”

Harry looks at him. “You think I should give Ian- Mr. Grey another chance?”

“I think you should give him a chance to explain himself. Then decide if he deserves another chance.” Bridgemont fusses with a pin and straightens up. “And you have to consider, Mr. Hart, not only whether he deserves forgiveness, but whether you _want_ to forgive him. There are some sins that can be redeemed, but that doesn’t mean a person should continue to be involved with the sinners.”

It would be easy to assume that Bridgemont is talking about their homosexuality, but Harry gets the feeling that’s not the case. He wonders exactly how much Bridgemont knows about Ian “Merlin” Grey. After all, if you can’t tell your tailor…

Bridgemont finishes his work quickly without any more conversation with Harry, eventually peeling him out of the carefully pinned pieces with only minimal poking and sticking - some of which Harry still thinks is on purpose. When Harry steps out of the fitting room, Ian is still waiting for him. Second chances, Harry thinks, and folds his arms. “We are going to have a discussion,” he says. “And you are going to be completely honest with me.”

“Absolutely,” Ian agrees instantly.

“Not here.” Harry does _not_ want to have this conversation in public. There are better places to air grievances than for the whole world to hear.

“Your flat?” Ian suggests.

Harry gets the sense Ian is offering Harry the home field advantage, but he doesn’t want the other man in his flat. “In your hotel room,” he counters.

“Fair enough.”

The journey to the hotel is dead silent, save for the sound of the cab Ian calls for and the street outside it. Charlie sneers at Harry in the lobby as he and Ian make their way to the elevator, and Harry gives him the two-fingered salute in response. Right now, he’s irritated enough to not care that it’s childish and he really doesn’t give a fuck what the bellboy thinks of him.

They settle in the lounge area of Ian’s hotel room, Harry seated pointedly across from Ian, not next to him. He crosses his arms and lifts an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Well what?” Ian asks. He’s sitting all the way forward on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, hands curled together. Harry has never seen him this nervous, and it’s both satisfying and unnerving.

“I think I deserve some answers, don’t you?” Harry keeps his voice intentionally cold. It sounds odd, almost uncomfortable to his ears.

Ian flinches at the chill but he keeps his own voice level. “Ask me anything, and I swear, I will answer honestly.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

The bastard looks so earnest about it, too. “You killed that man,” Harry snaps, allowing the anger he’s been doing his best to temper boil to the surface to fuel his resolve. “Jack.”

“Aye, I did.” Ian doesn’t sound ashamed. He doesn’t even sound entirely remorseful, and Harry’s stomach turns.

“Have you killed other people besides him?”

“I was a soldier, Harry, of course I’ve killed people.”

There’s the remorse in Ian’s voice now, but it’s still not enough to satisfy Harry. “Have you killed a lot of people, then? Outside of combat?”

“Define a lot?”

It’s too obviously intentionally casual, and Harry fixes him with a steely gaze. “More than ten?”

Ian hesitates for a moment, and then says, “Aye.”

“More than twenty?”

Ian huffs and says tightly, “I do not know the _exact_ number, Harry, not off the top of my head. Let’s call it fewer than you probably think, and more than you would like, alright?”

“You torture people. You tortured Jack before you killed him.” Harry can still picture his face when he closes his eyes.

“Aye, I did. Sometimes it’s a necessity.”

“How could it ever-” Harry cuts himself off, unable to look at Ian as his voice breaks. More calmly, but still with a tremor in his words, he asks, “How could torturing someone _ever_ be a necessity? What sort of man does that?”

Ian’s hands flex as he squeezes them together. He inhales slowly, and then lets it all out in one breath. “I never claimed to be a good man, Harry. I do what I feel I have to. It doesn’t always allow me to sleep well at night.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a gangster.”

“I’m not.”

The laugh that bursts past Harry’s lips is sharp and bitter and Ian flinches backwards. “So you do that sort of thing for, what, for fun?”

“I do it for work,” Ian insists.

“What possible work-” Harry cuts himself off, this time as the gears turn in his head. Ian had made a comment...and the note about the docks…

“I’m a bootlegger, Harry. With Prohibition in America, it’s good money. Real estate, investing, it’s all a very good cover, and a safety net, should the US government ever wise up and repeal it.”

Harry nods as things click together, and he feels incredibly dim for not putting it together before. “Import/export. That was you making a joke?”

“That was me telling you the truth.”

Harry hates Ian’s stupid face for looking so honest. “Don’t act like you haven’t been lying to me this entire time.”

“I haven’t. I’ve been keeping things from you, yes, but I’ve never lied. Can you honestly tell me you would have stayed if you knew?”

Harry studies his lap. “So you just...what, were going to keep me around like a stupid pet until you had to go back to America-”

“I never thought you were stupid,” Ian protests, “and I _never_ saw you as a pet or a kept boy or any of that rubbish.” He stands up, pacing over to the window. Harry tracks his movements. Ian leans against the frame, pressing his forehead against his arm.

“I was being selfish,” Ian says eventually. “That’s what I do, it’s who I am. I’m a selfish person. I knew not telling you was a risk, but I was banking on you never finding out, because if you didn’t find out, then maybe I could be with you a little while longer.”

“You do illegal things and you call it your job,” Harry says softly. “You knowingly put me in danger. Jack could have shot me that night.”

“I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“But what if you hadn’t been able to stop him?” Harry asks, and Ian has the decency to look ashamed. Harry takes a deep breath. “Is your name really Ian Grey?”

“I was legally born Ian Hamish Grey, in Edinburgh, Scotland, to Archibald and Hannah Grey, both deceased.”

“And Tristan’s...that story you told me. That was true?”

Ian nods. “I told you, Harry, I haven’t lied to you.”

“What was going on? With Jack and...Poppy.”

“Harry-”

“He pointed a gun at me,” Harry snarls, rising to his feet, and Ian takes half a step away from him. “I think I deserve to know.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Ian says, “Jack was part of my inner circle. Whiskey.”

“Whiskey?”

“A nickname, like Tequila and Ginger. Everyone in the inner circle has one. But Jack betrayed me. Poppy is one of my competitors. My only _real_ competitor, if you discount all the small scale operations. He started giving her information, when shipments would be in and out so she could have her people sabotage them, that sort of thing. At least at first. In the past few months it’s been escalating. Some of my workers went missing. Ginger’s family called her, saying they’d been receiving death threats.” Ian’s jaw clenches, and the upset on his face tugs at Harry’s heartstrings against his wishes. “I look out for my people. Their safety is paramount. I knew I had a mole, and I knew it had to be someone in the inner circle, so I passed different information to each of them, and the trail led me back to Whiskey. He fled, and I followed him. Ginger was supposed to come with me, but she stayed behind to protect her family.” His lips twist into a wry smile. “Tequila almost went home to help, but Ginger was adamant I needed protecting more than she did.”

“And Poppy is still…?”

Ian nods. “Poppy isn’t going to stop just because Jack is dead. If anything, that’s an escalation. It’s a call to war.” He shudders. “I really was a soldier, Harry. I’ve seen enough war to last me a lifetime.”

“So why do this then?”

Ian turns back to him and slides his hands into his pockets. “Because I was doing it before Prohibition, and I didn’t see a reason to stop. Because cheating the system is the only thing I’m good at. Because I _like_ it. If Poppy was willing to share the market, I would be fine with it, but she wants to have a monopoly over the alcohol trade to America. She’s been gathering the smaller businesses under her empire, and now she’s coming after me.”

Harry swallows hard. Ian takes a few steps towards him. “I’m not going to hold you hostage. If you want to leave, to walk out that door and never see me again, then that’s your choice.”

Harry frowns. “Don’t I know too much?”

Ian laughs, although it’s a little sadder than usual. “I’m not a gangster, and if you were going to report me to the police, you would have done it already. I trust you.”

“I need…” Harry clenches his fists. Everything is confusing, overwhelming. “I need time to think.”

“Take as long as you want,” Ian tells him easily.

Harry nods. “Yes. Good. Alright.” He takes a false start towards the door, then pauses and turns back. “The dress. Do you want it-”

“It’s yours, Harry. I bought it for you to have.”

“Right.” He starts towards the door and stops again, “My clothes, the ones I left at the club-”

“You can take them now, or I can have Olivia drop them off with Roxy sometime later today, if you’d like.”

“Okay.” He pauses again. “Why didn’t you come to my flat? Why didn’t you call?”

“I was giving you space. I didn’t want you to feel like I was invading your territory. Or, god forbid, stalking you. I hoped it would make you feel a little safer.”

That’s a...very sweet answer, and Harry flees before he can pause to ask anymore questions. He doesn’t want to linger, because the longer he lingers the more he wants to stay.

His head is thrumming loudly as he takes the elevator down to the lobby. He believes Ian, believes that he hasn’t been lied to, at least not overtly. He almost wishes he didn’t believe it, because he feels relief that he’s gotten the truth, but he still doesn’t know how to reconcile the two versions of Ian in his head.

He remembers a snatch of conversation, half forgotten in the dark and lost to sleep, about magic spells and falling in love.

The elevator doors open with a clang, and Harry presses the button so they close again.

Ian looks up in surprise when Harry enters the room, and he straightens up where he’s bent over the desk in the corner. “Did you forget something?”

“Yes,” Harry says simply, because if everything’s going to be so goddamn complicated, this, at least, is simple. “I seem to have left my heart here.”

A frown creases Ian’s forehead. “What?”

Harry advances on him, pushing Ian back against the desk, the black of his suit standing out gorgeously against the shining white wood. “It seems you can add theft to your list of crimes, because you’ve rather rudely stolen my heart when I’m still trying to think badly of you.”

“That…” Ian blinks, and then the corners of his lips twitch up. “That is one of the worst lines I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up.” Harry takes Ian’s earlobe between his teeth and bites down viciously, and Ian gasps, his knees buckling, and grips the desk behind him for support. Harry shoves a leg between his thighs and transfers his teeth to Ian’s neck, latching on over the pulse point and sucking hard. “I’m still cross,” he growls.

“Of course,” Ian pants.

“I still have more questions.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” Ian grinds down against him.

Harry tears at the two halves of his shirt hard enough to pop several buttons off and bites at Ian’s collarbone. “And I haven’t forgiven you. I’m still deciding if I ever want to see you again.”

“Completely understandable.” Ian is close, Harry can tell.

He pulls away, and Ian lets out a whine. Harry gives him a harsh look, and Ian cowers, and satisfaction runs through Harry at the picture Ian makes: tough, intimidating bootlegger with his suit torn, bite marks all over his exposed skin, and a tent in his trousers, hunching in on himself at one sharp look from Harry. “Do not call me,” Harry says. “When, _if_ I am ready, I will come to you.”

Ian’s mouth is hanging open, and he closes it with a snap. “Yes, sir.”

Harry smirks and turns on his heel. With much more confidence, he struts out of the hotel room.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief discussion of institutionalized racism.

Apparently, there’s nothing quite like finding out the man one is romantically involved with is actually a highly successful criminal to give one self-confidence, and Harry wonders if he shouldn’t have tried dating criminals ages ago. He thinks there’s a joke about anti-sodomy laws he can make there, but he doesn’t want to say it.

The dress gets folded up neatly and placed at the bottom of his drawer. The ripped stockings go to Roxy, who swears she can mend them for him. The heels, headband, wig, and pearls go in a box under his bed. It wouldn’t do to leave such things lying about, but they are his to keep, and he’s not about to give or throw them away, not now he’s allowing himself to do this.

He understands why Ian likes it, feeling pretty. It makes him feel oddly free, oddly powerful, in a way he had forgotten after so many years of forcing himself not to want it.

His other clothes are delivered later that day, as promised, by Olivia through Roxy, and Harry is pleasantly surprised to see two other packages wrapped up with them, which open to reveal the other dresses and accessories Ian had acquired for him. They get wrapped back up and go under the bed as well.

He doesn’t call Ian.

James’s birthday is just around the corner, or at least close enough to be somewhat pressing, and Harry busies himself acquiring a present - a new cookbook, to feed James’s other, lesser passion of trying to make Alistair fat - along with working on his novel, which is suddenly calling to him again now that he’s smoothed things over with Ian to some degree. He waits five days.

That had been Roxy’s advice. One of the first things he’d done after getting back from Ian’s hotel room was to ring her flat. She had been in, and he’d invited her up for a chat.

“What’s this about?” she asked. “Did you talk to Ian yet?”

Harry nodded. “Has Olivia told you any more about what’s going on?”

Roxy bit her lip and narrowed her eyes slightly at him. “A bit,” she said slowly. “What’s Ian told you?”

Harry told Roxy the little he knew about Ian bringing alcohol illegally into America and Poppy causing trouble, and Roxy relaxed and told him that Olivia had explained much the same. “She didn’t want to keep it from me any longer,” Roxy explained. “It was getting to be too much, too many wires crossed.”

“I think I’ve already forgiven him,” Harry admitted. “I think...god help me, I think I’m in love with him.”

Roxy rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t in question, Harry. It’s pretty obvious you’re in love with him. At least to people who know you.” At his panicked expression, she laughed. “It’s alright. I think Uncle Alistair and James will miss it if they don’t see you together. Not that they’d care, you know.”

He knows, but that didn’t make the the thought of telling them any easier to bear. “So what should I do, Roxy girl?” Harry asked her. “Should I give in and go crawling back to him?”

“Hell no.” At this, Roxy lit a cigarette, and Harry had promptly glared at her and opened a window. She jabbed it at him. “You make him do the crawling. Show him you aren’t going to be pushed around anymore.”

“Well, to be fair, he didn’t exactly push me ar-”

Roxy raised her eyebrows and Harry shut his mouth. “Five days,” Roxy told him. “You want him to squirm a little bit. See what it feels like to be out of the loop. Give him five days, and then tell him you’re going to meet for dinner where _you_ want to meet. Don’t ask him, _tell_ him.” She shrugged. “After that, play it by ear.”

So Harry waited. He’d seen Olivia just once in that time, smoking on the stoop with Roxy, and she’d nodded at him but said nothing, a look of understanding passing between them.

Five days, almost precisely to the hour, Harry pulls out the card Ian had given him with his number on it and dials.

When Ian answers the phone, Harry gets the impression he’s slightly out of breath, like he dove to take the call. “Ian Grey speaking.”

“You’re taking me to dinner tonight,” Harry informs him.

What breath Ian has regained catches in his throat. “Harry?”

“Tristan’s restaurant. Seven o’clock. Dress like you’re trying to impress me, and I recommend bringing a cushion for your knees because there _will_ be groveling.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry goes to hang up, but before he can Ian says, “Harry?”

“Yes?”

There’s a slight pause, and then Ian says, “Thank you.”

“Tristan’s. Seven o’clock. _Don’t_ be late.” He hangs up.

Part of him is sorely tempted to put on one of his dresses. He could use the power boost. But it’s not practical, and the nervous voice that’s been mostly silent for the past five days pipes up again and squashes the impulse. Instead he puts on a jumper over his button-down (he said Ian had to impress him, not the other way around) and, after some deliberation, tucks the pearl necklace under the collar.

He takes his time walking to Tristan’s, so that when he arrives, ten minutes past seven, Ian is waiting for him. He’s nervous, Harry can tell, stock still but radiating an energy of restlessness. “You look good,” Harry tells him, and Ian swivels to face him, brightening when they make eye contact. He’s in jet black with pinstripes, the cut slimming him and lengthening his legs. Underneath the waistcoat, his shirt is sharp white, and the only splash of color in the entire ensemble is the green carnation tucked into his buttonhole, the same kind Harry remembers from the first time he met Ian. “Very good,” Harry amends.

“You’re late,” Ian says softly. “I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

There’s no one around to see them, so Harry cups his cheek, and Ian leans into the touch. “So why did you stay?” Harry asks curiously.

“I would have waited all night, just to see if you turned up.”

Harry smiles and kisses him lightly on the lips. “I just wanted you to have a little taste of how it feels,” he tells Ian. “The not knowing.”

“I don’t like it,” Ian says with a grimace.

Harry pats his cheek. “Neither did I.” He offers out his arm, “Shall we?”

Ian takes it, and together they descend into the restaurant. As Tristan seats them at the same table as last time, Harry squeezes Ian’s elbow. “I want to see the butterflies.”

Ian turns to Tristan, who fishes a key out of his pocket and passes it over without a word. Harry grins as Ian gives it to him and says, “Well then, let’s take a look.”

Harry’s fairly certain he wouldn’t have found the door without Ian’s help, hidden as it is even farther towards the back of the restaurant. The courtyard is fairly large, and Harry cranes his neck up to see the roof of glass, letting beams of moonlight down into the enclosure. There are a few artificial lamps attached to the exposed brick, but they only give off a very dim light, so everything is lit faint purple and yellow, shadows dancing across the walls. Scores of butterflies dance with them.

“How many kinds of butterflies are in here?” Harry asks, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Ian says. He has his hands in his pockets, watching Harry instead of the butterflies. “You’d have to ask Tristan.”

Harry lets go of Ian and crouches down by one of the many large plants that run around the edges of the courtyard and line paths through the middle of it. A pretty blue butterfly, the tips of its wings edged in white, is resting on one of the leaves. “Adonis blue,” Harry tells Ian. His lips quirk into a smile. “You know, butterfly colours are supposed to have meaning.”

“Are they now?” Ian asks. Harry gets the feeling that Ian isn’t actually making fun of him, even if the words are playful.

“Blue butterflies mean healing,” Harry says. “And white represents…” He pauses, and then says, “It represents a natural balance in relationships.” That’s one meaning, anyway, but he won’t give voice to the other one. Not yet.

“Really?” Ian’s voice is fond. “So what is that pretty butterfly telling you?”

Harry straightens up and looks at him. “I don’t need a butterfly to tell me to give you another chance.”

Ian reaches out, and Harry threads their fingers together. “That’s good,” Ian murmurs. “That’s…”

“You’re not going to lie to me this time,” Harry tells him. “Not even by omission. Do you understand? It’s not fair to me to be with you, to put myself in danger intentionally or otherwise, and not know what’s going on.”

“I understand. And I promise. Complete honesty from here on in.” He frees one of his hands and smiles, making an x across his chest with a finger. “Cross my heart.”

If Harry had any doubts, the Large White butterfly that lights briefly on Ian’s carnation before taking off again banishes them entirely, although he can’t deny the twist in his gut. He squeezes Ian’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

The wine is waiting for them again, and Harry raises his eyebrows and gestures to it as they sit down. “Is this normal for Tristan, or have you somehow been ordering without me noticing?”

Ian raises his hands in mock-defense. “It’s all Tristan. If I believed in that sort of thing, I’d say he was psychic. Has this knack for knowing exactly what his customers want.”

“What if I had any allergies? That’s a rather dangerous practice, isn’t it?”

“To be fair, most of his customers are regulars he's known all their lives,” Ian says, although he does look a little chagrined. “You don't...have any allergies I should know about, do you?”

“Not that I'm aware of. You?”

Ian shakes his head. “Slight seasonal allergies, but I travel enough they're not usually an issue.”

Harry swirls his wine glass, watching the drink spiral in shallow red waves, and then asks, “Why do the people who work for you call you Merlin? The alcoholic names I can understand, although I do think it's a mediocre joke at best, but I don't understand Merlin.”

“First of all, the alcohol nicknames were not my idea. I pin the blame squarely on Tequila, because he started it. Second, Merlin is...complicated.”

“I've got time. I'm not going anywhere.” It’s a weighty phrase, and Harry can tell Ian understands from the way his posture changes, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Alright,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It is a _very_ convoluted joke that Olivia made once, a very long time ago, back before what I did, what I do, became illegal.”

“So, you were involved in the alcohol business before Prohibition?” Harry can’t help but ask. Ian had mentioned it once before, in passing, but Harry had been a little miffed, so he hadn't really thought much about it. “It’s not a new thing?”

Ian chuckles and shakes his head. “No, it’s not a ‘new thing.’ I’ve been dabbling in a bit of everything for a very long time, and I wasn’t about to let a little thing like the law stop me when it was suddenly much more profitable.”

Harry takes a sip of his wine. “So. Merlin?”

“Right.” Ian nods. “The joke really had two parts. It came up the first time I got Olivia into America.”

Harry frowns. “What do you mean?”

“The Chinese Exclusion Act? Not to mention all the other shit immigration laws America's been drafting?” Ian says. “She’s not...well, we aren’t sure where exactly her family is from. We think Korea, but we’re not positive. She was left at an orphanage as a bairn, spent most of her childhood there. But the Americans,” and here, Ian’s lip curls and the way his eyes harden, just briefly, makes Harry shiver, “don’t give a rat’s arse about that. They don’t want _anyone_ that they think is of Asian descent coming into their country.” He sighs. “We were lucky. I pulled some strings, and because I’m considered a well-to-do merchant who benefits the local economy, and she’s legally my employee as well as my family, they let her come with me whenever I go to the states. It’s absolute shit, having to go through the system like that, but I’d rather her be there legally than have to hide. She gets enough shit as it is. I can’t imagine how much worse it would be if immigrations officers tried coming after her. It’s not perfect over here, but at least it’s better than that.”

There are...so many pieces of that Harry wants to dissect and ask more questions about, but he needs a minute to relax his body. He knew, abstractly, that Olivia’s race meant she would face some problems that he didn’t fully understand, but to hear Ian lay it out so factually makes him tense, trying to imagine having to go through even a fraction of it. Ian shakes his head, and moves on before Harry’s entirely ready for him to. “Anyway, she made a comment about me ‘waving a magic wand,’ and that lead into a joke about brewers and witches.” He glances at Harry, who supposes he looks as lost as he feels, because Ian adds, “A lot of mythology around witches exists because of brewers. Because of my occupation, Olivia thought it a fitting joke. In all honesty, it went over my head at first. She’s better-read than I am.”

Harry does not find that even remotely surprising. Ian may be incredibly well read, but Harry’s pretty sure Roxy is at least on par with him, and that Olivia is equally interested in expanding her knowledge with books is not a shock.

Ian continues, “There was an incident later at one of my bars. A few patrons being harassed. I don’t tolerate that in general, so I threw them out. Someone made a joke about knights in shining armor, and Olivia, presumably still thinking about the magic comment, said I wasn’t a knight, I was Merlin. Over the years, people threw it around as a joke occasionally, but it wasn’t until Prohibition started that I really used it much. In this line of work, having an alias doesn’t hurt. I’ll bet you anything Poppy isn’t her real name.”

“Anything?” Harry asks mildly. He doesn’t know enough to make a real wager, but it’s not like it’s the sort of bet anyone really collects on.

Ian’s lips quirk into a playful smile. “Aye. If I ever find out, and I’m wrong, I’ll give you anything you want.”

“Well, I certainly hope I’ll never have to collect on that bet,” Harry says. “I hope you can resolve this business with her quickly. Preferably without more bloodshed.”

Naturally, Tristan chooses that moment to appear, but if he heard Harry, he doesn’t mention it, setting a plate down in front of each of them and backing away again. Ian twirls a strand of pasta around his fork, watching that instead of Harry. “I don’t do that, you know. I mean, I have. But I don’t. Not if I feel like there’s any other way around it.”

Harry had picked up his fork, but he sets it down again. “Jack...Whiskey said…”

“I’m not denying that. I told you the other day. I...I hurt him. And, ultimately, I killed him. It happens. But that doesn’t mean that I seek it out or that I like it. I could carry a gun. Given what I do, people would hardly be surprised. But I don’t. Because I don’t like them and I don’t like how easy they make killing someone.” God, Ian’s eyes have gone dark again, and he’s looking at Harry now, leaning forward, his fist deathly white, he’s gripping the silverware so hard. “It’s easy to lose sight of the fact that you’re taking a life, hiding behind a gun. Any other way, with a knife or your hands or what have you, you have to get close, you have to _really_ want to do it, to understand what impact your actions will have. It’s a lot easier to stop. But with a gun, with a gun you pull a trigger and it’s over. No blood on your hands. Just a stain on your conscious that you can never shake.”

There’s a stark silence between them, and then Ian sits back again, shaking his head as if to clear it. There’s the tiniest twist of self-deprecating humour to his words as he says, “Sorry. I’m not being a very good conversation partner tonight, am I?”

Harry realises that he’s leaning forward, instinctively trying to be closer to Ian, and he wonders if that should worry him. He straightens up and says, “No, I started it. I said I wanted to know.”

“Saying you want to know and actually hearing it are two entirely separate things.”

That’s true, but even if the subject matter is a little darker, the most important thing to Harry is that Ian isn’t holding back. Silence falls between them as they eat, but it’s an easy, comfortable silence. Under the table, Harry slides his foot forward to nudge against Ian’s, who looks briefly at him in surprise and then settles again. He presses closer, and Harry keeps that point of contact through dinner.

He keeps careful track of how much wine he’s drinking. He doesn’t want to spend the rest of the night drunk.

Ian is the one who finally breaks the silence, after a bite of the chocolate cake Tristan left on their table - one slice, two forks, left very obviously in the middle - for dessert. “So what happens now? I distinctly remember someone made a comment about grovelling, and there doesn’t seem to be an awful lot of that going on at all.”

“Yes, well, maybe I’ve decided to go easy on you,” Harry teases, spearing his own bite of cake. He draws the fork slowly back out of his mouth, making eye contact with Ian, and then licks at the tines.

Ian shifts, his pupils dilating. “That’s a shame,” he says, and his voice is lower now. “I was rather looking forward to getting on my knees.” A calculated beat, and then, “But, if you’d rather I not…”

It takes a great deal of effort to keep from blurting out, correcting Ian, because Harry very much does want that. However, the burning low in his stomach, the desire to have control over Ian for once, keeps his mouth shut the appropriate length of time before he drawls, “Oh no, you’ll be on your knees, I can assure you that.” He slips his foot out of his shoe and slides it up the inside of Ian’s leg. Ian’s eyes widen and his knees fall apart, but Harry takes the touch away before he reaches where Ian really wants it. He lifts his eyebrows and waits.

Ian signals across the restaurant for Tristan, who appears by their table almost instantly. Ian pays him, and Harry stands up and casually waits for Ian to do the same. He gives Harry a look that’s unmistakable, lust burning in his eyes, and takes a few breaths. Harry can’t help but smirk. Eventually, Ian rises to his feet, the tent in his trousers not entirely gone but at a much more appropriate level.

Harry turns on his heel and strides out, the sound of Ian’s footsteps racing after him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for light dom/sub themes, light bondage, and light breathplay. Also for more discussions of mild racism.

Harry pins Ian up against the bedroom door the moment it shuts behind them, taking hold of his wrists and forcing them up over his head. Ian doesn’t fight him, and that feeling of control, of having the power because Ian is giving it to him, just spurs Harry on. He kisses Ian hard, biting down on his bottom lip until Ian pants into his mouth.

Harry releases Ian but keeps him against the door, not giving him any room to move as he shoves the jacket off Ian’s shoulders and unbuttons his shirt. His eyes widen as he finds white lace beneath, and he runs his hand down Ian’s chest, touching the corset reverently.

“You told me to dress to impress you,” Ian murmurs. “And you were complaining about not getting to appreciate it last time.”

“How many of these do you own?”

“Enough.” He shrugs off his shirt and cocks his head, tilting his hips towards Harry. “Are you going to finish the job?”

Underneath Ian’s trousers, Harry finds the matching white garters hooked to his stockings, but no panties. He can’t find it in himself to be disappointed, especially given the way Ian is already hard and leaking, his cock bright red against the crisp whiteness of the fabric. If Harry had James’s way with a paintbrush, he would absolutely paint the vision Ian makes right now.

As it is, he settles for wrapping his hand loosely around Ian’s cock, spreading the precum dripping from it to wet the shaft, and Ian lets out a moan that breaks into a bitten-back sound of displeasure when Harry pulls his hand away again. He looks on curiously as Harry reaches under his collar and pulls up the pearl necklace, his eyes darkening further when Harry pulls it off and balls it up in his hand.

He gasps, and his hips arch into it, when Harry gives his cock another slow stroke. Harry wonders what the uneven texture feels like, if it’s really as good as Ian seems to think it is, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He has other plans.

He drapes the necklace around Ian’s neck, the other man bending his head to let him, and then steps back. Ian is forced to come with him, lead like a dog as Harry grasps the end of the loop tightly in his fist. The other hand goes to Ian’s shoulder, guiding him down to his knees with little fuss, and Harry slides the necklace around so his hand is behind Ian, pulling down until the end loops tight like a noose around Ian’s neck. Ian’s mouth drops open and his eyes close, his cock giving another spurt of precum as Harry increases the pressure just a bit, not enough to really choke him but enough that he can feel it.

“This is the part where you grovel,” Harry tells him. He removes the necklace from Ian’s neck - Ian lets out a shuddering gasp as he’s released - and circles, tugging Ian’s wrists behind his back and crossing them, looping the pearls around them until they’re just barely tight enough that they won’t fall off, the sheer length of the necklace forming thick cuffs against Ian’s skin. The white beads match his corset and garters perfectly.

Ian could get free if he wanted to. But as Harry circles around to stand in front of Ian again, he can see that Ian isn’t going to slip his makeshift bonds. There’s complete trust in his eyes, along with desire, and Harry strokes his cheek because Ian just looks too pretty not to touch. And pretty is the right word for it; all the white lace makes Harry think ironically of puritan marriage beds, sweet innocence contrasting beautifully with heady pleasure. Ian watches Harry watch him, and he leans forward eagerly when Harry undoes his trousers, pushing them and his undergarments down enough to free his cock, only half-hard but quickly taking an interest.

Harry cups Ian’s chin, holding him still. “You’re going to let me fuck your throat until I decide I’m done,” he tells Ian mildly, and Ian shudders again, biting back a moan. “Then, I’m going to bend you over the bed and fuck you until I come.” They haven’t done that yet. Harry normally prefers bottoming anyway, but today he wants to do this and, given the way Ian’s cock jumps and he nods eagerly, Harry’s pretty sure Ian wants it too. Still, he asks, “Is that alright with you?”

“Yes,” Ian says immediately. “That is _definitely_ alright with me.”

Harry smiles. “Perfect. Open up.”

Ian opens his mouth obligingly, and Harry grips his cock in his free hand, tracing it gently over Ian’s lips until Ian sticks his tongue out, trying to taste. Harry lets him lick for a moment and then squeezes his jaw once in warning before sliding half his cock into Ian’s mouth. He sighs. “Shame you aren’t wearing lipstick. Maybe next time.”

It has the desired effect; Ian groans, and the vibrations ripple deliciously through Harry’s body. He thrusts a little deeper, and Ian relaxes his throat and allows it to happen as Harry sets up a slow pace, rolling his hips deep and holding himself there until Ian starts to look glassy-eyed as he swallows around Harry’s cock, then pulling out enough so Ian can take in a few breaths before doing it all over again. He doesn’t force Ian to take all of his cock, instead working the base with his own hand, even as Ian whines - dear god, Harry really loves how that feels, and he can’t feel the slightest bit guilty for blaspheming over it - and tries to lean forward, against the hand holding him back, to take in more.

Harry doesn’t let him, but he doesn’t specifically fight him on it either, just idly shifts back each time Ian tries. He’s not in any rush, so he creeps closer to the edge rather than racing to it, each thrust a little nudge closer to orgasm.

His eyes flick down to Ian’s cock, completely neglected, given that Ian’s hands are still wrapped behind his back, fists clenched so tightly they’re turning white. Harry’s actually a little surprised the string holding the pearls hasn’t snapped from the pressure yet. The head of Ian’s cock is starting to purple, and Harry takes pity on him and slides his leg forward so Ian can rut against him, and Ian gasps and whimpers gratefully around his cock and grinds against his shin.

“Beautiful,” Harry whispers breathlessly. “So perfect.”

Ian hums at the praise, and Harry lets himself enjoy it for a moment longer before he pulls out of Ian's mouth and moves his leg away. It takes a minute for Ian to realize: he leans forward as if to keep going, his hips moving against air, and then he pauses and blinks.

Harry bends down and kisses his forehead. “Up you get,” he murmurs. He's a little hesitant, unused to directing, but Ian takes it in stride, shifting carefully to his feet. Harry helps steady him.

“Do you want me to untie you?” he asks.

Ian hesitates, and then he says, “I’ve got some scarves in the closet. Might be more comfortable. Have you ever done this before?”

“Tying someone up during sex?” Harry clarifies. “No. Not the sort of thing I'd feel safe doing with a one-night stand.”

“But you feel safe with me.” It's almost a question, like Ian wants to believe it's true but he's unsure.

Harry smiles and unwinds the string of pearls. “Yes,” he says. “I do.” Maybe he shouldn’t, but he does, and saying it aloud brings a beaming smile to Ian’s face. He rubs his wrists as Harry opens the closet door, locating the scarves with relative ease. Ian slips behind him, plucking one and stretching it gently between his fists, testing the durability and give. Harry watches him, and Merlin beckons him over to the bed.

“Nothing fancy,” he says, laying down. “If this is something you want to do more, then we can work up to other things, but for now…” He gestures for Harry to come closer. Harry strips quickly as he obeys, leaving a trail of his clothes on the floor. Ian crosses his wrists over his head and instructs, “Loop it around the headboard.”

Harry dutifully winds it around the bar on top. From there, it’s mostly obvious. Ian helps Harry tie his wrists so the scarves won’t hurt him, tight enough that he won’t be able to slip them easily but knotted so he can if he wants to get out.

Harry settles back on his heels, admiring the light blue fabric against Ian’s skin. Ian tugs lightly on the scarf. He must be satisfied, because he grins at Harry. “All yours.”

Harry pulls the nightstand drawer open and takes out the lube and, after a moment of hesitation, a condom. Ian doesn’t say anything, but Harry thinks he catches a flicker of surprise cross Ian’s face before it settles back into looking pleased. Harry slicks his fingers and moves between Ian’s legs, which he spreads easily to accommodate.

“It’s been a little while since I’ve done this,” Harry warns. He really doesn’t want to fuck this up.

“Go slow, do what feels right, and listen to me if I tell you something hurts,” Ian tells him. “You ever do this to yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that.”

Harry hesitates a moment longer, and then carefully traces a finger over Ian’s hole before sinking in to the first knuckle. Ian sighs and arches into it slightly, so Harry presses a bit further. He wiggles it around, getting a feel for the tight heat, then withdraws and slips a second one in. Ian sucks in a sharp breath, but he doesn’t tell Harry to stop, so Harry doesn’t. He works them apart, scissoring and crooking them, looking for-

Ian cries out, his hands wrapping around the scarf and pulling as he rocks back onto Harry’s fingers. Harry grins. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Jesus fuck, do that again,” Ian growls, his brogue thick and low and doing amazing things to Harry’s cock. It had softened in the pause between Ian sucking him and tying him to the bed, but it hardens rapidly again, and Harry reaches his free hand between his legs to squeeze it briefly, delighting in the way Ian snarls and tugs at the scarf again. Harry slips a third finger into Ian and strokes over his prostate again, and Ian dissolves back into moans, that, after a minute, turn into, “I’m ready, you can fuck me, Harry, please.”

Harry teases him another minute, but only for another minute because he’s hard and aching - although probably not as much as Ian is - and he doesn’t want to deny himself any longer. He pulls his fingers out and retrieves the condom, rolling it over his cock and running his hand over it, getting a feel for the rubber. He grimaces.

“You’re not fucking me without one,” Ian informs him, “so you can either keep making faces or you can get over it and get on with it.”

Harry tilts his head at Ian, fighting to keep a straight face, when really all he wants to do is smile. “I was under the impression I was in charge here,” he says.

Ian blinks, and for a moment Harry sees doubt in his eyes - it hurts more than he expected - and Harry immediately soothes him with a kiss. “I’m just teasing you,” he murmurs against Ian’s lips, and he can feel the way Ian’s body relaxes. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

“About time,” Ian says, but there’s hardly a hint of sarcasm in the phrase.

Harry gives him one last kiss and moves back again, gripping his cock and lining it up carefully before sinking in. Ian relaxes into it, so Harry bottoms out in one smooth, slow thrust. God, it’s tight and hot and so very good, and Harry pauses to savour the feeling. He strokes along Ian’s leg, running his fingers gently up the stocking, snapping the garters lightly before using them to guide Ian’s knees up. He slides his hand up further, skating around Ian’s cock, and traces over the patterns on the corset.

Ian lets out a sound of displeasure and begs, “Move, Harry, please.” He punctuates the request by bucking back as best he can.

Harry gives in and moves, not hurrying, taking his time to find the right angle to hit Ian’s prostate on every slow, hard thrust. Ian moans, and Harry leans over him, sucking bruises low onto his neck and collarbone, the lace of the corset rubbing against his nipples and sending little shocks of pleasure down to his cock.

Even going slow, Harry feels too close to the edge all too soon. His thrusts speed up, turning uneven as he starts to pant, chasing after his climax, and Ian becomes desperate again, fighting at the restraints, begging, “Harry, please, Harry.” His cock is visibly throbbing, so hard Harry can see the individual veins pulsing along it. It’s completely slick with precum, leaking steadily, and there are long trails of wetness along the bottom of the corset.

“Do you think you can come like this?” Harry asks him, screwing his hips slightly to grind harder against Ian’s prostate, and Ian _sobs_ and throws his head back. “I need an answer,” Harry tells him. “You look like you’re aching, darling. Do you think you can come like this? Just my cock inside you, making you feel so good you can’t hold back any longer?”

He gives another hard, sharp thrust, and Ian gasps out, “Yes, so close Harry, _please_.”

“Come for me,” Harry commands, and to his shock and delight, Ian does, moaning as his cock shoots strips of come clear up to his chin. He clenches down hard around Harry, who only takes a few more strokes to tip over the edge.

It takes Ian longer to come down than Harry; he’s largely unresponsive as Harry unties him and, on a whim, uses the scarf to clean up the mess between them as best he can, depositing it and the condom on the bathroom floor and in the trash respectively. Ian will probably be pissed about ruining his clothes, but Harry’s still a little addled from his orgasm and the white looks so pretty against the blue. Besides, Ian got precum all over Harry’s trouser leg when he was humping it - that it was Harry’s fault is irrelevant - so Harry figures they’re even.

He goes to work on getting Ian undressed, unhooking the garters and rolling the stocking down carefully. He’s gotten one off and is halfway done with the other one when Ian seems to come back to himself, propping himself up on his elbows and watching Harry.

“Welcome back,” Harry tells him.

Ian grins. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my life. I think I actually might have blacked out.”

“So it was good, then?” Harry asks, setting the garters aside. Ian sits up and twists, and Harry goes to work unlacing the corset. The ties slip easily through their loops, loosening in his hands like peeling a second skin off of Ian, exposing his core for Harry to see. He strokes his fingers lightly down the skin of Ian’s back, and Ian leans into the touch.

“It was very good,” Ian promises him, in answer to his question. “You’re very sexy when you get bossy.”

Harry flicks his shoulder lightly. “Not bossy. In command.”

“Mmm, yes sir,” Ian teases. “Whatever you say, sir.”

Harry rolls his eyes and presses an affectionate kiss to one of the love bites he left on Ian’s neck. “I don’t...I don’t usually top.”

“That’s alright. I don’t usually bottom.”

Harry smiles into his neck and finishes freeing the corset, unwrapping Ian fully and examining the fabric. “This is ruined.”

Ian turns back and takes it from him. “It’s not ruined. Trust me, this isn’t the first time I’ve had sex in a corset. I know how to clean them.” He deposits it over the side of the bed and adds, “But that’s a problem for tomorrow morning.”

Harry follows him in settling, tugging up the blanket and tucking himself against Ian when Ian turns his back to him, wrapping an arm around his waist. It’s odd, being the big spoon, but it’s comfortable. Ian strokes his fingers over the back of Harry’s hand. There’s a slight tension to his shoulders that Harry isn’t sure how to interpret.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asks into the silence.

Ian huffs a soft laugh, but he doesn’t sound especially amused. “Nothing appropriate to discuss after sex.”

“I just had my cock up your arse. I’m not sure I care much about ‘appropriate.’”

“You wouldn’t want to hear it.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Ian sighs. Harry wishes he could see his face.

After a while, Ian says, “I lied before.” His voice is serious, not a hint of the earlier amusement or tenderness, just a hint of nerves and a lot of anguish.

Harry frowns. He doesn’t like the way that sounds. “What do you mean?”

“About not knowing everyone I’ve killed. I was lying. You wanted to know how many, and I said I didn’t know, like it wasn’t the sort of thing I really thought about. But I was lying. I know all of their names. Who their family was. I dream and I see their faces. All sixteen of them.” He shudders. “Being a soldier was one thing. I was following orders. The blood wasn’t on my hands, not really. But this...these deaths are on me. There’s no one else to blame. I know you asked me not to lie. I’m sorry about that. But...I didn’t know how to tell you. It hurt too much.”

It takes Harry a moment to respond. “You’re telling me the truth now. I suppose that’s what matters, in the end.” He can’t begrudge Ian for it, not when he sounds so miserable admitting it now.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Harry can feel the way Ian shifts, as if trying to put some space between them, and he tightens his grip, resting his cheek against Ian’s shoulders. “For lying,” Ian says. “And for...for bringing it up now. Ruining the moment.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Harry tells him. It should frighten him, how far gone he is on this man already, how quickly he’s finding it easier and easier to forgive him, but it doesn’t. He snuggles a bit closer, twining their legs together, needing as much contact with Ian as he can get, as if by osmosis he can convince the other man how much he really believes this.

“I’m not a good man, Harry.”

“Is anyone really?” Harry asks. “You don’t seek out violence. You don’t kill unless you believe it’s necessary. And you feel guilty about it after. I think that’s about as close to good as anyone can expect in times like these.” He’s surprised that, after everything he said before, he really believes those words. But he does.

Ian chuckles, and Harry likes the way it vibrates through him. “You continue to surprise me, Harry Hart.”

“I hope that’s a good thing.”

“It really is,” Ian says. “I could use more good surprises in my life.”

Harry kisses his cheek and then settles again. “Can I ask you a question?” he asks after a moment.

“Ask me anything you like.”

“It’s about Olivia.”

“What about her?”

“You said she was family. Not just emotionally, but legally.”

“She’s my daughter.”

Harry does out the math. He doesn’t know either of their exact ages, but Olivia looks to be in her early twenties and if Harry is right, Ian is about his age, somewhere in his mid to late thirties. It’s plausible. “How did you find out?” Harry asks. “I mean, if her mother left her at an orphanage, how did you find her again?”

There’s a pause, and then Ian says, “She’s not biologically my daughter, Harry. I adopted her.”

“Oh.” Harry feels a bit stupid.

Ian squeezes his hand. “She was twelve, I think. I was in my twenties. I was in the middle of building what I have now, not quite on the same level but not exactly working class anymore either. She was looking for a job, and she was so bright. Reminded me a lot of myself. I asked her if she’d have any interest in being my assistant, just taking notes and scheduling meetings and things. Figured I’d run it on a trial basis. If she did good, I’d hire her properly when she got a little older.”

“And she did good?”

“Oh, she did better than that.” Harry can hear the smile in Ian’s voice. “She was excellent at her job and then some, but more than that she felt like family. I’d been alone for a very long time, and having someone...it felt good. So I asked her if she’d be interested in me adopting her. If she hadn’t wanted it, I would still have given her the job. But she did want it. I guess she wanted a family as much as I did.”

Again, Harry wishes he could see Ian’s face, but this time for a different reason. Ian continues, “The paperwork is a bit tricky, legally adopting someone. Technically I took her on as my apprentice of a sort, which makes it a little easier. For all intents and purposes, though, Olivia is my daughter. When I die, everything I have goes to her. But more importantly, she’s family.”

“I’m glad you found each other,” Harry murmurs.

“So am I. It’s not always easy, mind you, but it’s absolutely worth it.”

“What do you mean?”

Ian lets out another little chuckle, and twists slightly to look at Harry, eyebrows raised, before settling back down again. “It’s bad enough being Scottish. Most of you lot hate people like me, and the Americans are slightly more tolerant but no less suspicious. But I’m white and I can fake an accent, so I can pull off passing as British. Olivia’s properly British, certainly more than I am, but most people don’t see that. They can’t see beyond what she looks like. They don’t believe she works for me, and they definitely don’t believe we’re related, legally or otherwise.”

“It’s not fair.”

Ian laughs bitterly. “You’re damn right it’s not fair. But there’s not much I can do about it. You can’t fight a whole system. In all honesty, she’s smarter than I am. She knows how to take care of herself, and I look out for her where I can. Do my best to protect her like a proper father. But most of the time, all I do is worry about her.”

“I’m sure you do your best.” Harry isn’t sure what else to say. “It’s clear she loves you.”

“Yeah,” Ian murmurs.

Harry presses a kiss to his neck. “Come on. Go to sleep. The worries will still be there in the morning, and it’s rather late.”

Ian hums softly, a touch of amusement in it, but he doesn’t respond, other than to tug Harry a little closer. Harry listens to Ian’s breathing steadying out into the easy rhythm of sleep, and quickly follows suit.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references of violence against a pregnant woman.

Sometime during the night, they shift positions. Harry doesn’t know if they rolled over in their sleep or if Ian got up at some point and laid back down like this, but he does know that when he rises up from slumber it’s to soft kisses pressed along his neck and shoulder, Ian’s arms wrapped around his waist.

“Good morning,” Ian murmurs in his ear.

Harry makes a noncommittal sound. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes.

“I know you’re awake,” Ian says. He nuzzles along Harry’s jaw, continuing the trail of kisses. “I was thinking about ordering breakfast. How does that sound?”

“I’m not sure room service is a good idea while I’m still in your bed,” Harry points out lazily.

“It’s not like they bring it to the bedroom,” Ian says. His fingers flutter over Harry’s stomach, tracing patterns against his skin. “Even I know that there are some levels of risk you don’t need to take.”

“Thought you were open about being gay?” Harry mumbles sleepily.

“I’m not about to announce it to the world at large. I’m open where it’s safe to be. At Tristan’s. At some of my clubs. In your flat, or here in bed with you.” He squeezes slightly, and Harry presses back into the touch. “Places where I know the people well and I trust them. I don’t own this place, and I don’t know all the staff especially well.”

“Do you not usually stay here?”

“I do. But they have a higher turnover rate than most places. I see new faces every time I come back. It’s hard to keep up.”

“So why do you live in a hotel? Why not get a flat here in London? Surely it’d be easier.”

“I travel a lot, and I don't settle well. I suppose it never really made sense to me to buy a place to live when I'd just have to leave it again before it really felt like home. Better to be a stranger in a place where being a stranger makes sense than be a stranger in your own home.”

Harry finally opens his eyes, but he doesn't look at Ian, watching grey morning shadows creep back up the walls. “I'd offer,” he says slowly, “but…”

Ian laughs softly. “But you've known me just over two weeks? But I do illegal things for work and that could reflect badly on you? But it would look suspicious for you to pick up a male flatmate in a one-bedroom flat?”

Harry bites his lip. Ian makes several valid points, but none of them was Harry's. “But it's a bit modest, compared to what you're used to,” he finishes.

“Hey.” Ian props himself up on his forearm, and Harry turns half onto his back to look up at him. “I told you,” Ian says. “You don't have to impress me.”

“You did. But it's one thing not to care about spending a night or two in a place like that. It's another to live there.”

“Then it's a good thing we don't have to think about living together for awhile yet. If you even want me around that long.”

 _If you even stay that long_ , Harry thinks. He doesn't say anything.

Ian takes his silence as the conversation being over. He presses a kiss to Harry's cheek and then sits up properly. “Why don’t I see about breakfast? Any preferences?”

“Surprise me,” Harry says, and curls up under the covers.

Half an hour later, Ian coaxes Harry out again with the smell of fried food. He’s got a full English breakfast on a tray, along with a bowl of fruit and two mugs. He sets it down on the bed, and Harry immediately lunges. “Touch the bacon, and you’ll lose a finger.”

Ian draws back, grinning as he holds his hands up in surrender. He nibbles at the fruit while Harry devours the bacon and moves on to the eggs.

There’s coffee in one mug and tea in the other, Harry discovers. He reaches for the tea hesitantly, and when Ian doesn’t make a move to react, he takes it. Ian picks up the other mug.

“So what now?” Harry asks.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re going to do this,” Harry says. “Properly. No secrets.”

“No secrets,” Ian agrees. He takes a sip of coffee.

“So what do we do now?” Harry repeats. “I go home and spend my days alone but my nights in your bed? We can’t exactly court.”

“If you’d wanted to be courted, you should have said something _before_ I slept with you on the first date,” Ian teases. But he sobers slightly and adds, “I want you to be a part of my life, Harry. No more secrets.” He pauses, “What do you think about coming to work with me today?”

Harry blinks. “Coming to work with you?”

“It doesn’t have to be today. We don’t need to spend every day joined at the hip. But I’d like you to see what I do. I imagine you have a particular image of what someone like me does, and I want to show you that it’s nowhere near as fanciful as that. Most of the time it’s downright boring.”

“So you want to take me to work to bore me?” Harry pokes at him with his foot. Ian slides his hand over the top of it, thumb stroking the flesh over his ankle.

Ian’s answer is completely serious. “I really do.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Harry says, pointing at Ian with a piece of toast. “If you come visit James and Alistair with me and come clean to them, I’ll go to work with you.” Ian looks hesitant, and Harry adds, “Roxy already knows. Surely your circle can handle two more people on the edges. And I think you’ve lied to Alistair long enough.”

“I lie to keep people safe,” Ian says. Harry arches his eyebrows. “You’re a special case,” Ian insists. “I’ve spent more time with you in a fortnight than I spend with most people in six months. I think the only person I see more of than you is Olivia. The people I work with, who know me, they were bound to notice.  That puts you in a unique position.”

“I don’t care,” Harry says. “James and Alistair are my friends. I don’t want to lie to them about you, and they’re going to have questions.” He gives Ian a pleading look, but allows, “You don’t have to if you really don’t want to.” He’s willing to lie to his friends if he really has to. He’d just prefer not to.

Ian sighs. “Can you let me think about it? I promise I’ll tell them at least part of the truth. About me being Scottish and the like. The little things. And...maybe the rest. I don’t know.”

Harry nods. “At least the little things.” He scoots closer to Ian. “You can think about it today while I’m following you around at work.”

Ian smiles and leans forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Then it looks like we have a deal.”

Harry glances over the side of the bed at his clothes scattered on the floor. He blushes. “Could you lend me a suit again? Otherwise we’ll need to stop at my flat first.”

“Of course,” Ian says easily.

Olivia meets them in the lobby, smiling brightly at Harry. “Hello, Mr. Hart. So you two have made up then?”

“Good morning, Miss March,” Harry says. He glances at Ian. “I suppose you could say that, yes.”

Ian places a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Harry will be following me to work today.”

Olivia’s eyes go wide. “Throwing him in the deep end already?”

Harry tenses, and Ian squeezes his shoulder. “She’s exaggerating. I told you, it’s really very boring.”

“Exactly.” Olivia nods gravely. “He must really love you if he’s willing to risk boring you to death just for the sake of honesty.” She shudders, and then winks, and the obvious theatrics allow Harry to relax again.

Ian doen’t deny any of it, and when Harry meets his gaze, he gets the sense that Ian is asking ‘is that okay?’ with only his eyes. Harry smiles reassuringly at him.

“Well,” he says. “I think I’m quite ready to be bored to death.”

Olivia checks her diary. “We’ll start at Kingsman. We’ve an appointment with them in an hour. After that, stopping by the docks to make sure they’re prepared to ship out tonight, a phone call with Champ once we’re sure everything is set so he can know roughly when to expect the shipment, and finishing up with Morgana. She’s expecting to leave soon, and we need to work out the end of her contract.”

“Then let’s get going,” Ian says. “Busy day.”

Olivia signals for a cab, and they head out.

Conversationally, Harry says, “I don’t think I’ve been back to Kingsman since we met.” It’s unusual for him; he normally spends a great deal more time there, but knowing Ian has thrown off his routine. Not that he minds.

Olivia twists to look at Ian, surprise and delight on her face. “So _that’s_ why you were so adamant about getting it. You didn’t tell me you met Harry there!”

“That is not-” Ian protests, and cuts himself off, the slightest colouring gracing his cheeks when he glances at Harry. “Alright, it was not _only_ because I met Harry there. I was planning on acquiring it before that.”

“Mhmm.” Olivia nods. “He’s never bought a bar for anyone before, Harry. You should feel special.”

“Ian has a habit of making me feel that way in general,” Harry says, taking pleasure in the way Ian’s flush deepens.

“Leave me alone, the both of you,” he mutters, but he leans into Harry slightly in a subtle gesture that Harry takes to be affectionate.

The bar is empty save for one person when they walk in; technically, it doesn’t open for another two hours. Without looking up, Eggsy calls, “Sorry, we’re closed,” and goes back to wiping down tables.

“We have an appointment?” Olivia says, and Eggsy jerks his head up.

“Shit, sorry,” he says. “You’re early. D’you want me to get Kay? I think he’s in the back.”

“No, it’s alright,” Ian says. “You’re right, we’re early. We’ll stay out of your hair until you’re ready. I’d hate to be a bother.”

Eggsy smiles, but it’s tight-lipped and a tiny bit suspicious. “Thank you, Mr. Grey.” He gives Harry a look, and Harry follows the summons, leaving Olivia and Ian to confer over her diary.

Eggsy bends close to Harry when he gets within range and whispers, “I saw you with him the other night, right? You two left together.”

Harry wets his lips nervously and swallows. “Er, yes.”

“Didn’t know you swung that way,” Eggsy says, his eyes flicking to Ian. At Harry’s stricken look, he adds, “Don’t worry, I ain’t about to report you. It’d be pretty fucking hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it?”

Harry looks at him in surprise, and Eggsy gives him a half smile and a little shrug. “What? I ain’t picky. Birds, blokes, basically the same thing, right?”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Harry says. He looks over at Ian, who is watching them over Olivia’s head. He doesn’t bother to look away, pretend he isn’t staring, when Harry catches his gaze.

“Fucking creepy,” Eggsy mutteres. “Don’t he freak you out?”

“Not especially. He’s a good man, Eggsy.”

That makes Eggsy relax a little. “If you trust him…”

“I do.”

“You know he does...you know…”

“Does what?” Harry asks mildly. He’s not going to be the one to let the cat out of the bag over a misunderstanding. He’s read enough spy novels to know better than that.

“Illegal shit,” Eggsy says. “Selling alcohol to the Americans and whatever.”

“If you know that, does that mean you’re helping him do it?”

Eggsy opens his mouth, and then closes it again. “Well, yeah. But it ain’t like what we’re doing is illegal _here_. It’s loopholes and shit. I’ve been looking at the papers.” He nods seriously. “Even if he goes down, the coppers can’t touch us.”

“That’s the point,” Ian says, and Harry is pleased that he doesn’t actually jump despite not noticing the man appearing suddenly behind him. He’s getting used to being snuck up on. Eggsy’s eyes widen for a moment, startled, before he looks down, slightly guilty. Ian smiles. “It’s good business sense to have this trace back to as few people as possible. It means if they get caught, it’s harder for the police to catch me. It also works the other way around. I’m asking people to take an incredible risk for me. They deserve not to have it come back to bite them. I look after my own.” He gives Eggsy a significant look. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, lad.”

“I ain’t afraid,” Eggsy mumbles, looking for all the world like he’s considering shitting his pants.

Kay, the bar’s manager and previous owner, before Ian bought it, chooses that moment to peer out of the backroom. “Mr. Grey! You’re early!”

“Apologies if I’ve inconvenienced you in any way,” Ian says smoothly, taking a step away from Harry and Eggsy. “I do like to be punctual to my meetings, but I’m afraid I may have been a bit overeager today.”

Kay comes back into the main room. Harry has known him largely from a distance; he’s getting on in years, a former friend of Harry’s parents who cut ties around the time the war started. He’d lost three sons to it, as well as a grandson, and he’s told Harry more than once that parents who don’t appreciate their children while they have them will only feel regret once they’re gone. Harry gets the feeling that, in the old man’s mind at least, Kay has adopted him. He certainly has a bit more sway than most over the man, hence Eggsy’s current employment.

“I wasn’t expecting to see Mr. Hart here today,” Kay says. “Harry. It’s a pleasure, as always.”

Harry shakes his hand. “I’m shadowing Mr. Grey. He’s been kind enough to let me observe him.”

Kay smirks. “Yes, I suppose it must seem very exciting to you. Eager young writer, mysterious man, doing wrong for all the right reasons.” Olivia snickers behind her hand, and Ian shoots her a look. She shoots him one right back.

Harry coughs. “Well, um...yes, I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

“I believe we have some business to go over?” Ian says, saving Harry from further embarrassment. “Why don’t we take a seat and get started on it?”

Olivia wasn’t joking: Harry isn’t entirely certain he isn’t going to die in this chair. Ian really is a businessman, and Harry has always found business incredibly tedious. His rare meetings with his editor are some of the worst hours of his life, eclipsed only by actually distressing things like his parent’s rejection of him and the death of Alistair’s sister.

It seems like millenia later that Ian says, “You know, a word of advice? It’s entirely up to you, but I’d really recommend promoting Eggsy.”

Harry straightens up, pretending he hadn’t been halfway to sleep. Eggsy looks surprised. “Excuse me, sir?”

Ian nods. “You’re bright, lad. You’ve been following along with all the paperwork perfectly. Hell, you’ve corrected some things that I forgot to fix.”

“Which wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me look over them,” Olivia mutters.

“You were busy that night,” Ian says and goes right back to talking to Eggsy. “You’ve absolutely got what it takes for a managerial position, if Kay decides to give you one. You’re not a half-bad bartender, but I think you’d be much better suited for something a little higher up the food chain.”

“But I don’t have any sort of schooling or nothing.”

“Neither do I,” Ian says. “And I like to think I do alright.” He looks at Kay. “It’s really up to you, but I’d recommend at least thinking about it.”

Kay is already nodding, and Harry smiles at Eggsy. He knew the boy would do well if he was just given an opportunity to shine. Ian stands up. “I think that concludes our business, then? Eggsy, I do want you to get in touch with me at some point over the next few days. I really think you should meet Tequila. He can give you some bartending tips I think you could use. You have my number?”

“Yep. Sure thing,” Eggsy says. He and Kay stand too and shake Ian’s hand. Harry doesn’t actually leap out of his chair once he realizes they’re leaving, but it’s a near thing. Olivia smirks at him.

They say their goodbyes, and then it’s out into the crisp air again. “What’d you think?” Ian asks him.

“You were right,” Harry says. “Horribly dull.” He takes Ian’s arm. “I’m very pleased.”

Ian looks down at where Harry’s touching him, clearly delighted, and beams at him. “I’m glad.”

Olivia makes vomiting noises. “Stop being sweet. You’re going to make me sick.”

“You were so eager for Harry and I to make up, you can deal with the repercussions of that,” Ian tells her, but he obligingly separates from Harry. “Besides. We’re off to the docks next, and I’m sure you’re very excited to run off and have a minute alone with a certain dock worker who just happens to have a break when you scheduled my meeting.”

Olivia blushes but does not deny it.

Harry hates the docks. There’s a reason he rarely visits Roxy at work. Everything smells like fish and salt and smoke, and the wind does awful things to his hair. Not to mention jeering sailors and the boys and ladies of the night who lurk around for said sailors and anyone else with loose morals and change to spare. It all makes him rather uncomfortable, not because he has a problem with prostitutes specifically - he understands why people might be drawn to that sort of work for some reason or another - but because people shouting sexual innuendos and leering at him in public has always made him uncomfortable.

Ian doesn’t seem to have the same problem; he strides along, Olivia taking two steps for every one of his, following closely at his heels, and Harry hurries to keep up, swallowing hard and trying not to breathe too much.

There are several warehouses lining the water, where cargo ships deposit their goods. Ian glances back at Harry to make sure he’s following, and jerks his head towards one. “That one’s ours.”

“‘Ours’ as in you own it?” Harry asks.

“Own it, rent it out for other people to use when I’m not in need of it,” Ian says smoothly. He holds out his hand, and Olivia slaps the diary into his palm before skittering off. In the distance, Harry hears a shriek, and sees Olivia all but tackle Roxy, knocking her pageboy cap askew, the two girls laughing as they skip off, oblivious to the other dock workers watching them.

Something dark twists nervously in Harry’s gut, and Ian picks up on it. “Olivia can take care of herself, Harry. We spend an awful lot of time around sailors. I’ve seen her threaten to cut off the hand of a man who tried to touch her. Hell, I’ve seen her _actually_ cut off one’s fingers when he tried to feel her up over her blouse. They’ll be fine.”

Suddenly, Harry is no longer worried for the girls, but for any dock worker who even thinks about trying something. Not to say they wouldn’t deserve it, but Harry would hate having to explain to James and Alistair why their surrogate daughter is being held as an accessory to murder.

Ian steers him inside the warehouse. It smells a little better, more rusting metal than day-old fish. “Hang back a bit,” Ian tells him. “These lads get a bit suspicious of newcomers, and I’d hate you to get stabbed over a misunderstanding.”

Harry looks at him in alarm. “That is edging away from boring and moving dangerously close to, well, dangerous.”

Ian laughs. “I promise I’ll protect you.”

“Last I checked, you weren’t armed.” Harry distinctly remembers Ian mentioning his opposition to carrying a gun.

“Want to bet?” Ian grins, eyes glittering. Harry swallows hard and does not challenge him on it. Ian approaches the workers, who are clustered around a set of crates. “Hello, boys.”

“Hullo Mr. Grey,” one of them answers. He looks a bit older than the others, grimy with dirt and sweat, but still mostly presentable. He tugs at the ends of his jacket and stands up straight. “Here for you appointment, sir?” His accent is thickly cockney, and it contrast sharply with Ian’s posher one.

“Where’s Dotty?”

“Home sick. Poor girl, think she’s starting to lose her stomach for fish.” Surprisingly, he sounds sympathetic rather than mocking.

“And you’re second, are you Thomas?”

Thomas nods. “Yes, sir. Dotty told me personal. Just while she’s away, mind.”

“Alright then,” Ian says. “You should have gotten a shipment for America today?”

“Yes sir,” Thomas says. He pats the crates. “All boxed up and ready to leave on the Vega come sundown.”

“You mind if I check?”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t, sir. Given the state of things right now.”

Ian looks up sharply from where he’d been peering into the crate. “What do you mean, the state of things?”

Thomas opens his mouth and then shuts it again. “I just meant, sir, that you’ve been having us take an awful lot of extra precautions lately. It’d seem amiss if you didn’t follow through.” The other workers busy themselves looking anywhere but at Ian. Harry gets the feeling he’s missing something.

Ian narrows his eyes, but closes the lid on the crate. “Everything looks to be in order,” he says. “Good work boys.”

“Sir?” Thomas says as Ian goes to turn away. “If it weren’t too much trouble, could you look in on Dotty?”

Ian’s brow furrows, but he nods. “I’ll stop by later today.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Come on.” Ian leads Harry away, a hand on his shoulder, his pace quick.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks.

“I haven’t told anyone outside the inner circle about Poppy,” Ian says. “If people are starting to notice we’re having problems, that means I’m not handling the situation as well as I ought to be.”

“You can’t be everywhere at once.”

“I can try,” Ian mutters. “And Dotty…”

“Who’s she?”

“Just one of my workers. Oversees the crew here. Never misses a day, not in the two years she’s been on my payroll.” Ian lets go of Harry as they step back out into bright sunlight, “If she’s not in, that means something is seriously wrong.” He looks over at Harry. “You don’t mind if I stop by her flat before we meet with Morgana, do you?”

“Of course not. You promised you’d check in on her. I don’t mind.”

Ian nods. “Thank you.” He cups his hand around his mouth and calls, “Olivia!”

“How do you know she can hear-” Harry cuts himself off as Olivia and Roxy appear almost out of nowhere, Roxy quickly tucking her hair back under her cap, Olivia reapplying her lipstick. She casually licks her thumb and rubs at a mark on Roxy’s neck, Roxy blushing and buttoning her collar further to hide it.

“Hi, Harry,” she mumbles.

Harry smiles. “Hello, Roxy. Have a nice break?”

“Oh, definitely,” Olivia says smugly. Roxy nudges her and straightens her cap again.

“I should get back to work,” she says.

“As should I.” Olivia heaves a sigh, smirking at Ian, and pecks Roxy’s cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

“What’s tomorrow night?” Ian asks.

“James thinks he can finish my portrait in one more sitting,” Olivia says. “I’m going to his flat tomorrow night and staying for dinner.”

Roxy brightens. “Why don’t you two come as well? The more the merrier, and you know Uncle James loves having people to cook for.”

Harry glances at Ian, giving him a significant look. Slowly, Ian nods, not breaking eye contact with Harry as he responds, “We’d love to, assuming James and Alistair are alright with it.”

“I’ll ask,” Roxy says, “but I can’t imagine why they wouldn't be.” She returns Olivia’s kiss. “Okay, now I _really_ have to get back to work.”

Olivia waves as Roxy hurries off, sighing happily. “She’s so pretty.”

Ian rolls his eyes, but he can’t disguise the fondness on his face. “Yes, we know. Come on. I promised I’d check in with Dotty, and then we’ve got to get back to the hotel to make a phone call to Champ.”

Dotty lives not far from the dock, in a row of flats that definitely looks like it’s seen better days. Harry has always thought his flat was shabby, but he knows it could be worse. This is worse. The paint is peeling from pretty much everywhere, and Harry’s fairly certain if he ran his fingers over the black bricks, they’d turn brown and he’d come away with stained hands.

Ian catches the look on his face. “Believe it or not, this is an improvement on where they used to live.”

“They?”

“Dotty and her husband.” He rings the doorbell, Olivia bouncing on her feet right behind him, trying to see past him when the door cracks open.

“Ian?” a quiet voice whispers. “Is that you?”

“Thomas asked me to see if you were alright,” Ian says softly. “Can I come in? I’ve got Olivia and a friend with me.”

Slowly, the door opens further, and a woman with blonde curls and a black eye backs away, letting them into the hall. Harry tries not to look too alarmed. Ian does not bother, cradling her cheek and tilting her head into the light. His voice is low and dangerous when he asks, “Did Cecil do this?”

She shakes her head and clutches her stomach. “Cec wouldn’t hit me. Especially not with the baby on the way.”

Ian doesn’t look surprised to hear that. He takes his hand away from her face, lightly reaching out to cover her own. “Tell me who hurt you, Dotty.”

“She said her name was Poppy,” Dotty says shakily, and Ian sucks in a breath and straightens up. Dotty bursts into tears. “She had men with her, and she told one of them to hit me. I was so scared, Ian, I thought I was going to lose the baby.”

“Where else did they hit you?” Ian demands. “Are you alright? Do you want me to call a doctor?”

“No!” Dotty says. “No, Ian, you can’t. I’m fine, I promise.” She bites her lip. “Would...would it be alright if I took leave early? I know I said I wasn’t going to until the baby was a little closer to being due, but-”

“Take all the time you need,” Ian says. He strokes her hair back out of her face. “Full pay.”

“But-” Dotty protests.

“Let me do this for you,” Ian insists. “With Cecil between jobs, you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

She starts crying again. “Poppy told me that if I went back to work, she’d hurt me and the baby again. Hurt Cecil too. Ian, what’s going on?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.” Harry doesn’t think he’s imagining the note of fear in Ian’s voice. “You stay here, stay safe. I’ll take care of Poppy. I promise. Your baby is going to be fine.”

She sniffles and wraps her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. “You stay safe too,” she says. “There are a lot of people who need you to be okay.”

Ian quirks his lips into a half smile and nods towards Olivia, “Don’t worry. Even without me, you’ll get your paycheck.” Olivia nods soberly.

Dotty pulls away and socks him lightly in the arm, “Not for the money, you sap. You got a lotta friends who’d be devastated to go to your funeral.”

“Well, then, I’ll do my best not to let them down,” Ian says. He kisses her cheek. “Give Cecil my best.”

“I will.”

Outside on the pavement, Ian bends over, hands on his knees, his breathing shaky. Harry hesitates, looking at the closed door behind them, and then carefully lays a hand on Ian’s back, “Are you alright?”

Ian straightens up. “No. No, I’m not fucking alright. These are my fucking people she’s hurting. People I promised I’d look after. How many of them are going to get hurt because of me? How long before it’s Tequila or Eggsy or Olivia or you?” He rubs his forehead, looking exhausted. His voice trembles when he says, “She’s ahead of me all the fucking time and I don’t know how to catch up. She’s _toying_ with me.”

“It’s going to be alright,” Harry says, because what else is he supposed to say?

Ian doesn’t look like he believes him, but he clears his throat and blinks quickly. A single teardrop falls down his cheek, and Ian wipes it away quickly before saying, his voice level again, “We should get back to the hotel. I have to make a phone call.”

The cab ride back to the hotel is quiet, and Ian fumbles with his cigarette case, lighting it and taking a long drag. His hands are shaking. Harry doesn’t comment.

When they get to his suite, Ian goes immediately to the bedroom and grabs the telephone. Harry sits awkwardly on the sofa next to Oliva. “So, who exactly is Champ?” he finally asks.

“He looks after things in America while Merlin is in England,” Olivia tells him. “He, Ginger, and Tequila have history. We’re all pretty close.”

They lapse into silence again. Ian’s voice carries faintly through the open door.

“I’ve never seen him like this before,” Olivia whispers.

Harry looks at her. “What do you mean?” he asks quietly.

“Don’t get me wrong, he had kittens when he found out what was going on with Ginger in the states, but…” She swallows hard and shakes her head. “Everything’s getting worse. More people are getting hurt. And he just keeps blaming himself for it, like we didn’t know exactly what we were getting into.”

“Is he going to be alright?”

Olivia bites her lip. “You know, I honestly have no idea.”

Harry stands and walks into the bedroom. Ian is sitting on the bed, head in his hands - or rather hand, the other one holding the phone to his ear - and Harry sits behind him, wrapping his arms around Ian’s waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. This close, Harry can hear Champ’s half of the conversation.

“- and I’ll increase security. No one walks home alone. It’s not safe anymore.”

“It’s never been safe,” Ian mumbles. “But it’s never been like this.”

“You’ll get her, Merlin. We’ve all got faith.”

Harry squeezes Ian lightly in agreement. Ian sighs. “I have to find her first. I’ll call you if there are any more developments.”

“You keep yourself safe, you hear?”

“You too.” Ian hangs up the phone and reaches for Harry’s hands, drawing them to his lips and kissing the knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“Today was supposed to be about showing you that it’s not just danger and chaos. I wanted you to feel safe with me.”

“I do feel safe with you,” Harry insists. He moves to crouch in front of Ian. “Look at me.” When Ian does, Harry says, “You know what I saw today?”

Ian shakes his head, and Harry smiles. “I saw a man who will put everyone else before him. Someone who tells a young man to embrace his full potential, who treats his workers with respect and dignity. A man who’s willing to murder to keep them safe, even at the expense of his own safety and sanity.” Harry squeezes Ian’s hands. “I saw a man who is trying so, so hard to be everywhere at once, and I saw people who trust him unconditionally, who love him like I love him, because he is a _good man_ , and he deserves our love and our trust.”

For the first time in the two and a half weeks Harry has known Ian, he watches him cry, not just one tear rolling down his cheek put proper floodgates, like Neptune has opened the force of the sea from Ian’s eyes. It feels a bit like watching a statue cry, unexpected and awe inducing, and Harry reaches out and wipes tears from Ian’s marble cheek, afraid that if he touches too much, Ian might crumble under his hands. Ian trembles against him, and Harry pulls him closer, wrapping his arms around him and resting his forehead against Ian while he shakes and sobs. Suddenly the two images of Ian in Harry’s head are very easy to connect, melding together to form one slightly broken man trying to pretend everything is alright.

“Shh,” he soothes. “It’s alright. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“You should go,” Ian whispers. “You should get as far away from me as possible before you get hurt too.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I could never live with myself if she hurt you.”

“And I could never live with myself if I left you to deal with this alone,” Harry counters. He strokes Ian’s cheek, the stream of tears wetting his palm and fingers. “I’m not going anywhere,” he repeats.

Olivia knocks gently on the open door. “Should I tell Morgana we’re going to be late?”

Ian sniffs, wiping his eyes, and Harry passes him a handkerchief. “No. No.” Ian shakes his head. “We’ll be there. I just need a minute.”

“Are you sure you should be going out right now?” Harry asks.

Ian looks at him, and except for the slight redness around his eyes, it would be impossible to tell he was just crying. “I’m fine,” he tells Harry gently. He nudges him gently back so he can stand up, and he strokes a hand through Harry’s hair, kissing his forehead. “Why don’t you go home? Olivia can escort you and then meet me at the club.”

“What?” Harry blinks. “No, I don’t want-”

“Harry,” Ian says softly, and a touch of that brokenness, that desperation, creeps back into his eyes and his voice. “Please.”

Harry grips the back of Ian’s neck and kisses him hard. Against his lips, he says, “I will see you tomorrow.” It is not a promise. It is a threat, and he knows Ian can hear it in his voice.

“Yes, you will,” Ian says, and that is a promise. He’s not going to run.

Olivia takes Harry home. The ride is mostly quiet, until the very end when, just before they pull up in front of Harry’s flat, Olivia says, “He’s never had someone like you before.”

Harry looks at her. Her expression is completely serious. “His job isn’t easy. He’s always been able to handle it because he can afford to put everyone else first. He doesn’t have anything to lose. But now he has you.”

“What about you?”

“I’m different. Ian is like a father to me, hell, he _is_ my father, but he knows I can take care of myself. Everyone around him chose to get involved in this.”

“So did I!”

“Not at first.” Olivia shakes her head. “We all knew what he did first, and then we got to know him. You’re doing it the other way around, and that’s not the same.”

“I don’t care,” Harry says stubbornly. “I’m not going to leave him, or any of you.”

“Good,” Olivia says. “Because he needs someone like you. Right now, without you, I honestly think he’d let himself get killed over this. But as long as he has you…”

Part of Harry wants to protest at that much pressure being put on him. But most of him knows that it’s irrelevant. He doesn’t plan on going anywhere.


	18. Chapter 18

Harry is in the middle of a chapter when the phone rings. Writing is really the only thing that’s been keeping his mind busy, trying not to worry about Ian. Fiction is comforting; he can spin Eliza and Hamish’s story a lot more pleasantly than he can affect his and Ian’s.

He’s still reeling at the irony that Hamish is Ian’s middle name.

He answers the phone. “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

Harry smiles in relief. “Hello, Ian. You’re not about to cancel on me, are you? I already called Alistair to make sure we were officially invited over.”

“No, I’m not about to cancel,” Ian says. “I made you a promise. I was just checking in, seeing how you were.”

“You’re going to see me in…” Harry checks the time, “Two hours.”

“What’s your point?”

Harry laughs. “I’m fine, darling.” The pet name comes surprisingly easily to his tongue. “What about you?” he asks more carefully. “How did everything go last night?”

“Everything’s fine. I’m...managing.”

“Don’t lie to me, Ian. I’ll ask Olivia, you know. She’ll rat you out.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Ian insists. “It’s not...it’s not easy, but I’m doing alright. I promise.”

“Alright,” Harry relents. “I’ll see you in two hours, darling. Don’t be late.”

“Yes, because _I’m_ the one who keeps _you_ waiting.”

“It was one time! And I was making a _point_!”

There’s mirth in Ian’s voice when he says, “Two hours. I’ll see you then, love.” He hangs up, and Harry smiles stupidly at the phone.

He dresses up a little nicer than his usual jumpers, but nothing especially fancy. When he steps into James and Alistair’s apartment, it’s already a bit crowded. Olivia and Roxy are sitting on the counter, pressed together at the shoulder and thigh and stealing tidbits from James whenever he walks by with a plate. He smacks at their reaching hands to protect his dishes, but they laugh and always try again on his next pass. Alistair is tidying up a spill of paint by the studio door. And Ian is in the corner, leaning against the fridge and looking nervous.

Well, Harry thinks he looks nervous. He’s not sure anyone in the room besides Olivia would be able to tell.

Ian brightens as Harry closes the door behind him. Harry moves over to him and gives him a peck on the cheek. It makes his heart pound in his chest, knowing the others are watching, but no one says anything, and he relaxes against Ian, who wraps his arms around Harry’s waist.

“Told you,” James says to Alistair, who rolls his eyes.

“I never said they weren’t together,” Alistair points out. “Only that I wasn’t sure.”

“You’ve been gossiping about my love life?” Harry asks, mock-scandalized.

James breezes past and pats his cheek. “We’re your friends, Harry. It’s what we do.”

“I thought you did each other,” Harry shoots back, and James guffaws while Alistair’s cheeks colour.

Ian nuzzles against him, smiling into his skin and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’m glad you’re here,” Harry tells him softly.

“So am I.”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten your other promise.”

Ian tucks his face against Harry’s neck. “I haven’t forgotten either. After dinner.”

Harry decides that’s fair. Everyone’s in a wonderful mood, and there’s no reason to risk spoiling dinner. If anyone has a negative reaction, it’ll be better if they’re all fed and lethargic. It’ll make them slower to anger. Especially if James has made dessert.

The table isn’t really big enough to cram six people around, but they make do. Everyone’s a bit on top of each other, shoulders rubbing, knees squished together. Harry doesn’t mind. He’s got Ian to his right, his hand reaching under the table to touch Harry’s knee or brush against his thigh every once in a while, and Roxy to his left, looking very sweet and practically in Olivia’s lap, the women feeding each other bites from their own forks.

“This is amazing, as always,” he tells James. “Why you don’t cook in one of Alistair’s restaurants I’ll never understand.”

“It’s because he’s really quite lazy,” Alistair says without missing a beat. “I’d have to fire him in under a week.”

James pouts. “You wound me, darling.” He places a hand dramatically over his heart, “After all the love I’ve given you, this is how you repay me?”

Alistair rolls his eyes. “I thought I repaid you by loving you back, in spite of your many charming character flaws.”

“I’m a rogue and you adore me for it,” James says, as if he hadn’t fussily ensured everyone at the table had tucked a napkin into their collar to protect their clothes from the sauce.

“Oh, is that why?” Alistair looks like he’s pondering that, even as his eyes sparkle playfully. Harry’s fairly confident he and James are holding hands under the table.

Harry offers to do the dishes after dinner, and Ian leans next to him by the sink, drying them as he washes. Ian is facing into the room where Harry’s back is to it, and Harry stiffens slightly when Ian says, “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

From across the room, James says, “I don’t think any man should be entirely honest. Everyone should keep a few secrets for himself.” Alistair hums vaguely in agreement.

“While I agree with you there,” Ian says, “Harry is rather insistent about this. Roxy already knows, and Olivia, of course, but he thought you ought to as well, given that I do business with Alistair.”

“If this is about the bootlegging, I’m already aware,” Alistair says calmly.

Harry whips around. Ian blinks in surprise, and Alistair blinks back even as James looks down at his husband in shock. “Just because you don’t do that sort of business with me doesn’t mean I didn’t notice that you do it. I pride myself in being thorough with research before I close any deals,” Alistair tells Ian. “And you own several bars and make frequent trips to America. They might legally be closed now, but I’m not an idiot.”

“So you won’t think it’s especially odd if I tell you I’m actually Scottish?” Ian asks, dropping the accent.

“Well, I didn’t expect _that_ ,” Alistair allows, “but no. I’m not especially surprised by it.” Sometimes Harry wonders if Alistair has the capacity to be surprised by anything. Harry has never seen him take news anything less than in stride.

James still looks flabbergasted. Roxy snickers at her non-biological uncle, who composes himself slightly and says, “Yes, dearest, thank you ever so much for keeping me in the loop. I do appreciate it.”

“Please don’t sulk,” Alistair says. “It had nothing to do with us, so I didn’t think it was important.”

“Well, I do,” James pouts.

Harry finally hands Ian the plate he’s been holding under the water for the past few minutes. Ian dries it and places it with the others. “If it’s any consolation,” he says, “I didn’t actually tell Harry until he found out on his own.”

“ _After_ we’d been seeing each other for a full week,” Harry says, nudging Ian with his hip.

Ian nudges back. “A week is _not_ that long.”

“In terms of Harry being with someone, two days is long,” James says, apparently distracted enough at the prospect of needling Harry to no longer be upset at his husband.

“And it’s not like you’ve ever kept someone around longer than a few days,” Olivia chimes in.

“They’re ganging up on us now,” Ian tells Harry. “This is what happens when you make me spend time with your friends.”

“They’re your friends too,” Harry points out, handing him the last dish. He turns around fully, and Ian flicks the dish towel at him. Roxy snickers again.

“What?” she says when Harry shoots her a look. “I like you in a relationship. It’s better than you moping.”

“I do not-” Harry cuts himself off when Roxy raises her eyebrows.

“That’s what I thought,” she says.

Harry waves her off. “Why is everyone picking on us tonight? Why aren’t we looking at James’s painting? It’s done, isn’t it? That’s why we’re here?”

“Done and gorgeous,” Olivia says. “I should get him to paint me more often.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Harry asks. Olivia lives in a hotel. She doesn’t exactly have a home to bring it to.

“Hang it in Roxy’s flat,” she answers simply. “That way, even when I’m gone, she can still see me.”

“You say that like I’m letting you go anywhere without me,” Roxy says, clutching Olivia’s arm and laying her head on her shoulder. Olivia smiles down at her.

“Well?” Harry asks James, rather than think about Ian leaving and Harry staying behind. “Can we see it?”

James goes into his studio and returns with the picture. It’s one of his better ones, and it captures Olivia perfectly, her face smiling mischievously out from the canvas. “I call it _Dove with an Olive Branch_ ,” James says proudly. He grins. “Get it?”

Harry understands the word play. Olivia is in fact holding an olive branch in the painting, a dove perched on her shoulder. It’s not the worst joke James has made for one of his paintings. Harry recalls the one where he has antlers and shudders internally.

“It’s beautiful,” Ian says. “You’re a terrific artist. I should commission you sometime.”

“If you can sit still long enough,” Olivia mumbles cheekily.

“Yes, mouthing off at your boss is a brilliant idea,” Ian tells her playfully.

“But mouthing off at my father is to be expected from a modern young woman of my age,” Olivia shoots back.

Harry sees the flicker of surprise on James’s face, but again, not on Alistair’s. Ian drapes an arm around Harry’s shoulders and laughs. “Fair enough, but I can still ground you, young lady, so watch your tone.”

Olivia doesn’t miss a beat. “Ground me and that lovely empire you’ve built comes crumbling down.”

“Aye, that’s true,” Ian agrees. Harry leans into him and sighs in satisfaction. This is what he wants, he thinks. Not the repression of his childhood. Not the fear of the rest of his life. This, laughing with his family in a too-crowded kitchen, pressed against the man he loves.

If only there weren’t a darker cloud tinting the occasion.

They spend a little longer at James and Alistair’s, and then the four guests bid their farewells, James insisting that Ian attend his upcoming birthday party because “you’re family now and what’s the point of family if they don’t bring you presents?” Alistair elbows him sharply in the ribs for it, but Ian laughs and agrees.

 It’s not worth it to take a cab, so they walk, separated slightly in a way that Harry feels acutely compared to the way they were clustered together in the flat, and they part ways when they reach their building, Roxy and Olivia disappearing into her flat and Ian following Harry upstairs to his.

“Make yourself at home,” Harry tells him, closing the door and shrugging out of his jacket. Ian toes off his shoes and wanders over to Harry’s writing desk, poking at the loose pages on top. “Not that at home,” Harry tells him.

Ian pulls his hands away. “I’m not reading it. Just looking.”

“Mmhm.” Harry pulls him away and gives him a proper kiss. “Thank you for today.”

“Turns out they, or at least Alistair, already knew, so I’m not sure if thanking me is really necessary.”

“It is,” Harry says firmly. “It’s the intent that matters.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Ian grins, and pulls Harry into another long, slow kiss.

“Are you staying the night?” Harry asks breathlessly when Ian lets him go again.

“Would you like me to?”

“If you’re busy I don’t want to keep you.”

Ian threads his fingers through Harry’s. “Nothing tonight or tomorrow morning. I’m all yours, if you want me.”

“I always want you,” Harry says automatically, “but are you sure?” He bites his lip. “With Poppy-”

Ian’s expression darkens. “I don’t want you worrying about Poppy. That’s my job, alright?”

Harry nods placatingly, and Ian relaxes. “Do you want me to stay?”

 _Forever_ , Harry thinks. “Please,” he says.

Later, curled up in bed together, Harry looks down at Ian’s fingers, twined with his, resting against his stomach. “Olivia said that without me, she thinks you’d let yourself get killed, if the thing with Poppy came down to it.”

“What?” Ian murmurs sleepily behind him. Then, much more clearly, “No. No, Olivia had no right to say that to you.”

“Is she right?” Harry rolls over so he’s facing Ian, who meets his eyes with a fierce expression.

“What I’m willing and unwilling to do about the Poppy situation has nothing to do with this, alright?” Ian gestures between them. “Harry, I need you to promise me that if it ever gets to be too much, you will get out. I don’t want you staying with me because you’re scared of what I might do if you don’t. Promise me, Harry.”

“I promise,” he says. He doesn’t like the idea of running, but he understands the importance of this, of being able to escape if he needs to.

“Good.” Ian settles again and kisses him softly on the lips. “Go to sleep,” he murmurs.

“You’ll still be here when I wake up?”

“I’ll still be here.”

And that becomes almost normal.

It’s astonishing, really, how quickly Harry accepts the shift in his life. Less than three weeks ago, he was alone. He had Roxy and James and Alistair, but he didn’t _really_ have them. He kept himself just a little bit apart. He had Eggsy and Amelia too, to a lesser degree. But now he has Ian, unlocking parts of his heart he didn’t even know existed.

It becomes normal. They don’t see each other every day. They both have lives, after all. But they see each other most nights, Harry letting himself into Ian’s hotel room with the key Ian had given him, or Ian coming to his flat. He’s not quite ready to give Ian a key of his own, but Ian knows where to look for the spare one, which Harry supposes is almost as good. A first step, at any rate.

Harry learns to write on the sofa, bent half over his lap desk, Ian’s feet in his lap while the other man reads. He starts automatically leaving a second place setting out when he gets ready to eat. He begins to listen for the little catch in Ian’s voice when things go wrong, that little hint of frustration and fear, and he learns when Ian is calm enough to tell him about it and when it’s better to leave it alone, rather than risk Ian breaking down again. Ian doesn’t like crying, that much is obvious, so Harry doesn’t press him when Ian is on edge.

Harry goes back for his final fitting with Huntsman, and Bridgemont doesn’t bat an eye when Ian pays for his suit. They promptly christen it, Ian pressing Harry against the front door of his flat and going down on him while he’s still completely dressed, and Harry returns the favour, Ian teaching him some of the more complicated knots so Harry can tie him to the bed and ride him.

It’d be easy to say it’s just sex, but it’s not. Harry doesn’t quite understand it, didn’t believe that people could fall in love so hard and so fast anywhere except in stories. The rest of his novel starts to take shape.

Harry notices that Ian keeps him physically away from his work in general and La Hirondelle in particular. He doesn’t ask why; he knows Ian is trying to keep him safe, separating Harry from his job as much as possible. But he does ask about the club.

“We should go out,” Harry tells Ian. “You haven’t taken me dancing in weeks.”

Ian looks up at him, sprawled at the foot of Harry’s bed and holding one of the cases of butterflies he’d been looking at. “You want to go dancing?”

Harry shrugs. “I like your club. And you haven’t taken me back since-”

“Since I shot a man in front of you and you ran away screaming,” Ian points out. “I’m starting to think that place is cursed.”

“Third time’s a charm,” Harry points out, crawling down to the end of the bed and taking the case from Ian’s hands, setting it on the floor. “Please?”

“Wear the red dress?” Ian gives him some amazing puppy dog eyes, and Harry laughs.

“Yes, I’ll wear the red dress.”

“And the garters? And heels?”

“Of course.” It’ll look better with them anyway and comes with the added bonus of driving Ian wild.

“Then I’ll take you tomorrow,” Ian says quickly.

Harry clicks his tongue and shakes his head in mock-disapproval. “You’re shameless.” But he can’t help grinning.

“I can wear heels too, if you like.”

“Like you need to be any taller,” Harry teases. He kisses Ian, and tries to ignore the feeling of unease in his stomach.

Lately he feels like he’s being watched. He’s fairly certain it’s just his imagination. He hasn’t mentioned it to Ian yet. His partner has enough on his plate as it is.

They’ll go out dancing, and if Ian is good Harry will let Ian fuck him while he’s wearing the dress - alright, he’ll probably let him do that anyway - and they’ll be able to, just for one night, forget about this whole nonsense with Poppy.


	19. Chapter 19

Tequila covers the receiver of the phone and wolf-whistles when Harry steps into the club. “Lookin’ good, Mr. Hart.”

“Harry, Tequila,” Harry calls back. “You’ve seen me in a dress twice, I think we’re on first name basis, don’t you?”

“Sure thing, Harry.” Tequila grins. Then, into the receiver, he says, “What? No, baby, I wasn’t talking to you. Merlin’s boy just showed up.”

“Not a boy,” Harry reminds him, making his way over to the bar, his heels clicking on the floor. He’s aware there’s some irony in that statement, given his attire, but he doesn’t comment on it and neither does Tequila.

Tequila grins at him and says to Ginger (Harry assumes), “Shoot, yeah, he’s real pretty. You’d love him. Want to say hi?”

She must answer affirmative, because Tequila holds out the phone to Harry, who leans over the bar to take it. “Hello?”

“Well, you have a nice voice at least.” Ginger’s drawl matches Tequila’s, but it’s softer, less pronounced. “You must be Harry.”

“Ginger, I take it? Or do you prefer Elizabeth?”

“Either one for you. You’re family now. Tequila says Merlin’s real sweet on you.”

“I like to think so. I certainly feel the same.”

“Aw,” Ginger coos. “That’s cute. Welcome to the family, Harry. Could you pass me back to my man now? I don’t get to talk to him much, and these phone calls are kind of expensive.”

“Right, of course.” Harry hands the phone back to Tequila.

“What’d I tell you?” Tequila says. “Cute, right? He’s even cuter in person. No, baby, not cuter than you. No one’s cuter than you.” There’s a pause, and he laughs. “Okay, I’ll give you that one. Yeah, you’d leave me for her in a heartbeat, wouldn’t you? I see how it is.”

Harry leaves them to it, dress swishing around his ankles as he clicks into the backroom. Ian is sitting at the vanity, going through a stack of documents. He catches Harry’s eye in the mirror and grins. “Love the gloves.”

They’re white and they go up just past his elbows and he is constantly fighting the urge to readjust them, but it’s flattering to know that Ian likes them.

No headband tonight, but the package had contained some earrings that pinch onto his ears, forming three descending diamond-studded silver teardrops that match the sequins on his dress. He has a high collar of pearls, unlike the long, looser necklace that had accompanied his other dress, and a matching pearl and diamond cuff bracelet that goes over his gloves. Harry is _not_ going to ask Ian if they’re real diamonds and pearls. He doesn’t want to know how much Ian is spending on him because if he doesn’t see the price tag, he can’t feel guilty about it.

He pulls his lipstick out of the little clutch he has to match his dress and nudges Ian aside, bending down so he can see his reflection properly. Ian had taught him how to do this, standing behind him, pressing him into the bathroom sink. Harry’s pretty close to being an expert now, and he traces his lips easily, the bright red matching his dress to a tee.

“You’re very good at that,” Ian comments.

Harry sits across his lap, wrapping his arms around Ian’s neck for balance. “Well, I had a very good teacher.” Ian goes to kiss him, and Harry puts a gloved finger over his lips. “In case you weren’t paying attention, I only just put this on, and I don’t want you smearing it.”

Ian groans. “I’ve created a diva.”

“You were the one who wanted me to strut.”

“And you’re gorgeous when you do.” Ian kisses Harry’s cheek and then nudges him. “Alright, up you get. I’ve got work to do before Morgana gets here.”

“Finalizing her contract?” Harry asks, peering at the papers.

“Aye. Also, she's working with a different band tonight, so I need to draw up papers for that.”

“What happened to the old band?”

 “Holiday leave, I think. They didn't say.” His expression tightens briefly, and Harry can imagine his suspicions, flashing back to Dotty’s black eye. But then the look passes and Ian adds, “And drafting up Ginger’s contract for when she comes here, of course. I don’t know when she’ll be able to, but I want to be ready.”

Harry squeezes the back of Ian’s neck and then unwinds himself from his lap. “I’ll help Tequila open.”

“You know you don’t have to do that,” Ian calls after him. “I’m not paying you.”

Harry pauses in the doorway. “Well, I should hope not. It’d be a bit scandalous, don’t you think? Having sex with your employee?”

“Yes, because that’s absolutely all we’re doing,” Ian teases. “It’s not as if I love you.”

Harry pauses. He knows. God, he knows. Ian calls him love, and he’s talked about loving Harry (and Harry has done the same), but he’s never said those words, not in that order. Ian stops smiling when he realizes Harry’s staring at him. He tilts his head, and says more seriously, “I do. I love you. Is that alright?”

Harry flings himself at Ian, nearly tripping - okay, actually tripping - over his dress in his haste, and he tumbles into Ian’s lap. His partner catches him. “Whoa, there. You okay?”

Harry doesn’t answer, just seizes Ian’s face and kisses him hard. Ian tangles his fingers in Harry’s wig - the same brunette one, because the other ones just don’t look as good on him - and kisses back.

When they finally break apart, Harry says, “Yes. Yes, that’s alright. I love you too.”

Ian smiles. “Good. That’s good.”

Harry blushes. “I’m going to let you get back to your paperwork now. You’ve, er, got a little…” He gestures around his own mouth, and Ian looks in the mirror. Harry’s lipstick is mostly intact, just a tiny bit smudged, but it’s also left a faint impression on Ian’s lips.

Ian chuckles and nudges him off. “Go, before I have my way with you right here, you gorgeous, ridiculous creature.”

Harry flicks his nose, but does as requested.

Tequila is still on the phone: “- and so I tell him to get lost, and he fucking punches me, like I ain’t a foot taller than him and packing a lot more muscle.” He nods at Harry, who goes to the cupboard where the cleaning supplies are kept and takes out the stuff he needs to start wiping down tables. “No, I’m not kidding. And you know I can’t punch him back, Merlin would have my head if I laid out a customer in the bar, even if he deserved it, and he has the nerve to spit at me, like I’m the one who’s in the wrong when he’s the one calling Olivia a you-know-what.”

Harry tunes out most of it, getting into a rhythm, until he distantly hears the door open and Tequila say, “Sorry, baby, I gotta run. The kid’s here. I’ll call you in a couple weeks, okay? I love you.”

“Is this the right address?” Eggsy asks, and Harry turns around, surprised, although he supposes he shouldn’t be. “I’m looking for a bloke called Tequila? Mr. Grey sent me.”

“I’m Tequila.” He comes out from behind the bar and looks Eggsy up and down. “Shoot, well ain’t you just five feet of pretty boy. Bet the girls go wild for that.”

“Uh…” Eggsy looks around - not that Harry blames him, because Tequila is a bit much the first time you meet him, especially alone - and spots Harry. Harry tenses, but Eggsy only gives him a moment’s attention and a brief nod before turning back to Tequila. “So, Mr. Grey...Ian, I guess, said you got some stuff to teach me?”

“That’s the plan. Come on behind the bar, and let me see what I’m working with. Don’t mess up my shit, either. We open soon and I got a system. Don’t need you rearranging stuff on me.”

Harry smiles to himself and returns to his task while Tequila puts Eggsy through his paces. Ian emerges from the back around the same time Harry finishes up, and he kisses Harry’s cheek. “Thank you, love.”

A bottle shatters. Harry and Ian both turn towards the sound, and Tequila is already on the ground, scooping up the pieces. “Jesus, kid, what was that about?”

Eggsy looks back and forth between Ian and Harry, fingers still flexing loosely from dropping the bottle in surprise. He slowly lowers his hand. “I thought...I thought you was in a relationship?”

“I am,” Ian says. He nods towards Harry. “With him.”

It takes Eggsy a minute, but eventually his brain catches up. “Oh. Hey, Harry. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Harry says shyly. “I know it can be a bit jarring.”

“He makes a pretty picture, though, don’t he?” Tequila straightens up, tipping the shards of glass into a safe container. “I’d never be able to pull off a dress like that.”

“You absolutely could,” Ian tells him. “It’s all about confidence, and you have that in spades.”

“Well, thank you kindly.” Tequila tips his imaginary hat at Ian.

Eggsy is still watching him, and Harry shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, until they’re interrupted by the back door opening and Olivia and Roxy tumbling in. Roxy takes one look at him and squeals, “Oh, I haven’t seen this one yet.” Harry hardly has time to blink before she’s by his side, and he leans back into Ian as she flicks up the hem of his skirt, looking at the matching red heels under it, then taking his wrist to examine the bracelet. She looks over her shoulder and tells Olivia, “You’ve got great taste.”

Ian laughs and wraps his arms around Harry’s waist. “That she does, and I am forever grateful to her for it.”

Eggsy seems to take Roxy’s reaction as an okay to relax. To Tequila, he says, “Sorry, are we done?”

Tequila ruffles his hair. “Yeah, kiddo, we’re done. You’re good. You can help me with my shift, if you want. Or you can skedaddle if you got somewhere to be.”

“I’ll stay,” Eggsy says eagerly.

“Am I late?” Morgana asks, joining them with the band, none of whom Harry recognizes, following behind her like a little trail of ducklings.

“Right on time,” Ian tells her. “We should have just enough time for you lot to get ready before we open.”

“Perfect,” she says, and disappears into the dressing room.

As the club starts to fill with people, Harry settles himself in Ian’s booth with a promise to his partner that he’ll dance with him in a bit. “I’m holding you to that,” Ian tells him. “You’re the one who wanted to go out dancing.” But he leaves Harry be, making his way through the crowd to chat with Eggsy over the bar.

Roxy and Olivia drop down on either side of Harry, both leaning in front of him to light their cigarettes off Roxy’s lighter. “It’s been awhile since you’ve been here,” Olivia comments.

“Apparently, Ian is more superstitious than he likes to let on,” Harry says wryly. “Thought it might be bad luck.”

“I don’t blame him,” Roxy says. “First you run away crying, then you see him shoot someone and run away crying again? Not exactly a great pattern.”

“That was before,” Harry says. “It’s different now.”

Olivia nods in agreement, but she says, “If you are going to cry tonight, though, I’d recommend not doing it where Merlin can see you.”

“I really don’t think-”

“Oh, I love this song!” Roxy interrupts him. She stubs out her cigarette on the ashtray on the table and reaches for Olivia. “Come on, I want to dance!”

Olivia gives Harry a half smile. “Duty calls.” She gets rid of her own cigarette and whisks Roxy out onto the dance floor.

As Harry watches them, a martini is set down in his line of vision. He looks up at Eggsy, who shrugs. “Ian told me to bring it to you.”

“Very thoughtful of him,” Harry says, finding his partner across the room and blowing him a kiss.

Eggsy hesitates, and then says, “Can I ask? About this, I mean.” He makes a vague gesture to Harry’s outfit.

“If you’d like.”

“Are you like a woman or something now? I mean, it’s fine if you are, I know there’s people who do that sort of thing, I just-”

“Eggsy,” Harry cuts him off before he can start rambling. “I’m not a woman. I just like wearing dresses on occasion. It’s not all that different from Olivia or Roxy wearing trousers.”

“Oh.” Eggsy shifts from foot to foot. “Sorry, that was probably rude, wasn’t it?”

“Not especially,” Harry says. “It’s not the most unreasonable assumption.” He takes a sip of the martini. It is perfect.

“It’d really be okay if you were,” Eggsy mumbles, and Harry looks at him, a lightbulb of understanding blinking to life over his head.

“You know,” he says, very slowly, “it really is okay. If that was something you were thinking about.”

Eggsy opens his mouth, shock flashing across his features, and then he hunches in on himself. “People will think I’m a freak,” he mutters.

“Not the important people,” Harry tells him. “Not the ones worth a damn anyway. It’s hard, Eggsy. It’s a dangerous life people like us lead, even without men like Ian Grey. But, at least behind closed doors, sometimes the only thing worth living for is being true to yourself.”

Eggsy looks back and forth between Harry and Ian, who’s watching them curiously from across the room. “Is that what you two do?”

“Ian makes spaces for people like us,” Harry says. “It’s just one of the things he does. Gives us a place to be.”

“I still don’t know,” Eggsy says quickly. “I mean, I’m thinking about it, but…”

“Let me know,” Harry tells him gently. “When you figure it out, let me know. I’m not going to judge you for it.” He smiles and teases, “I’m not exactly in a position to, am I?”

Eggsy nods vaguely, studying the floor. “I should go back,” he says eventually. “Tequila will be wondering why I’m not helping him.”

“Run along then.”

“Thanks, though. Really.”

“Anytime,” Harry tells him, and watches him head back to the bar, where Tequila puts him in a playful chokehold, ruffling his hair some more before letting him get back to work.

Ian appears by his side. “What was that about?”

“Eggsy just had some questions for me,” Harry says. He knows Ian wouldn’t say anything to the wrong people, and he would most likely support Eggsy completely, but it’s Eggsy’s business, so he doesn’t share more than that. Instead, he holds his hand out for Ian to help him up. “Come on. I asked for dancing, so I might as well follow through on that.”

Ian pulls him to his feet, and spins him out onto the dance floor. “Careful,” Harry cautions. “This dress really wasn’t designed for anything more than a slow waltz.”

“It’s a good thing that’s about all you can do, then,” Ian teases. He settles into the lead, and Harry follows, their movements a little slower than really fits the song, but no one seems to mind.

Even though Harry's in heels, Ian still somehow manages to match his height. Harry looks down between them - not that he can see anything with his dress in the way - and Ian reads his mind. “I told you I’d wear heels too.” He shakes his foot back so the trouser leg shifts, and Harry laughs. Ian's are more conservative than his, black and practical. They almost pass for ordinary dress shoes if you don't look closely.

“And you say I'm ridiculous,” Harry says fondly, leaning his forehead against Ian's.

“You are,” Ian counters. “But there are worse things than being a bit ridiculous together, don't you think?”

“How did you end up so cheesy? Everything you've told me, about your childhood and the army and work...it would be so easy for you to be jaded. And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am,” Ian agrees. “I've seen so much evil in the world, Harry. I've been some of that evil. But I have to believe there's good too, that I'm doing good, because otherwise what's the point? Seeing all that...you either learn to appreciate the little things, to laugh and smile and surround yourself with people who make you happy, or you lock yourself away and start to hate everything. I never wanted to be the man who gave in to hate. I've known too many of those.”

“A philosopher too,” Harry murmures, pressing a little closer to Ian. Ian holds him tight, and the music slows down, finally matching their pace.

Harry dances three slower songs with Ian, Morgana crooning in the background, until the music picks up again and Harry says, “I need another drink. I'll be right back.”

He makes it halfway to the bar before he stumbles and falls, the crowd parting as he lands hard on the floor. Hands are on him instantly, Ian helping him back into a sitting position. “Are you alright?”

Harry shifts his skirt and finds the culprit. “Heel broke,” he says, holding up the offending piece. “Damn. I liked these.”

“I’ll get you another pair,” Ian promises. “Better quality.” As Harry slides the shoes off his feet and stands up, Ian says, “Why don’t you go wait in the backroom? I’d hate you to get your toes stepped on. Tequila’s feet are about the same size, I think? I’ll see if he has a spare pair here.”

“I draw the line at cowboy boots.” Harry points a finger at Ian. “They do _not_ go with this dress.”

Ian laughs. “Long as it is, no one will see them.” Harry gives him a pointed look and he surrenders. “I’ll see what I can do.” He carefully shoulders his way to the bar, and Harry skirts the dancing couples to creep to the backroom.

He sits in front of the vanity, crossing his legs and fixing his hair. The wig is still mostly in place, held tight by the bobby pins, but a few of the curls have been knocked askew. He teases them back into place, turning around when the door opens again.

It isn’t Ian. It’s one of the new band members. Harry smiles politely at him and turns back to the mirror just in time for the cloth to be shoved over his nose and mouth.

The world goes black.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mild racism, homophobia, and Poppy generally being The Worst.

There’s a light shining directly on his face when Harry blinks his eyes open, squinting against it. He can sort of make out blurry shapes at the edges of his vision, but everything is distorted. He hears a door open and then a feminine voice tisking. “Come on now, boys. We aren’t animals. Let the man see, why don’t you?” The accent is American, not thickly southern like Tequila and Ginger’s, but American all the same.

The light goes off, although the one overhead stays on, casting a yellow glow over the room. There are two men, one in either corner of the room facing Harry, both of whom he recognizes as members of the temporary band. In front of him, sliding primly into a chair and smiling through pretty painted lips, is a redheaded woman in a dress that would look more appropriate on a housewife than a snake charmer.

“Hello, Harry.” She beams at him, like he’s an aloof new neighbour she successfully invited over for tea rather than a kidnapping victim. “I love the dress. I don’t think I could pull off that much red, you know, the hair, but you make it look _good_.” The oddest part is, Harry doesn’t think she’s mocking him.

“Is there any point in pretending I don’t know who you are?” he asks slowly.

She purses her lips, tipping her head from side to side. “Mm, no, not really. We sorta already know everything about who _you_ are, so there’s not much point. Much nicer to skip to the part where we’re all friends, right fellas?” She grins back at the two thugs behind her. They don’t move. She pouts back at Harry. “You can buy the torpedo, but you can’t make him talk, am I right?”

“You’re Poppy, I presume?”

She spreads her hands. “The one and only. I’m assuming your sugar daddy told you all about me? Spreading his nasty rumours?”

“He’s not my-” Harry cuts himself off. A quick analysis of the situation: he’s not restrained, but the two men behind Poppy are definitely going to be stronger than he is and they’re almost certainly armed. He doesn’t dare look behind himself to see if there are more. He doesn’t want to turn his back on Poppy for a second. He just needs to keep himself collected and find a way out of this as soon as possible. “What are you going to do to me?” he asks.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Poppy says, “we’re not going to take you for a ride. See, we need you. Isn’t that nice?”

“I...you need me?”

Poppy nods seriously. “You’re going to do something very special for me, Harry Hart.” She smiles. “Do you want to know why I went into the liquor business?”

Harry doesn’t answer, but she continues anyway, “I didn’t really _plan_ for it to happen. It was really because of the war.”

“You served in the war?” Harry asks, surprised. She doesn’t exactly strike him as the type to become a nurse.

“No, silly,” she says. “But my daddy did. And, well, _someone_ had to keep the family business going while he was away. It was just me and him, you know? And he had this little corner shop, oh it was just darling. I kept it going while he went away and served, kept it clean and tidy and kept all our customers happy as clams. And you know what I learned?”

“What?”

“I learned,” she says, “that I am a natural-born business woman. My daddy didn’t come home from the war, so the shop was all mine. And we were doing good, damn good. Better than my daddy ever did. And then that nasty Prohibition came around, and I thought…‘Poppy, what do people want?’ It’s simple, really. People want what they can’t have, and they _really_ want alcohol. So I put my business savvy to good use. Built up my entire empire, and I did it a lot faster than Ian Grey and his coffin varnish, I can tell you that for sure.”

Part of Harry wants to defend Ian’s business practices. The more practical part asks, “What does this have to do with me?”

“A little patience, please,” Poppy chastises. “I’m getting there, I promise. See, here’s the thing. Dumb boys don’t like to do business with me, not directly. Don’t think it’s right, a woman calling so many of the shots around here, even a modern one like me.”

“You don’t exactly look modern,” Harry says before he can bite his tongue.

“And looks can be deceiving, can’t they?” Poppy smiles, but this one has an edge to it and Harry flinches back to avoid being cut. “After all, you’re all dolled up, and you do look lovely. But on second glance, well…you aren’t exactly a Jane, are you?” Poppy tilts her head and raises her eyebrows significantly. “Anyway, magic Merlin gets all the good deals because he’s a man, and I have to work twice as hard to keep up. That doesn’t seem very fair, now does it?”

“To be fair,” Harry says, “your profession is illegal.”

She waves him off and keeps going, “So, if I want to be successful, I have to give your guy a little nudge, don’t I? Get him out of the way.”

“Why not just kill him? Why not kill me?”

Poppy actually looks offended. “What, just because I have my boys knock around a few people, I must want to murder everyone? Your precious Merlin is the one with the track record. You should have seen what he did to poor Jack.”

“I did.”

Poppy looks surprised. “Oh, bunny, you must be really goofy for him if you can see that and still stay with him.”

Harry’s hackles go up. “I’m not-”

Poppy holds out her hand, and one of her guards hands her a file. She sets it gently on the table between them. “It’s alright, Harry. I already know. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Harry hesitates, his eyes flicking between her and the file. She smiles encouragingly and nudges it towards him. “Go on.”

He opens it. It’s full of photographs. He frowns, glancing through the first handful, and looks up at Poppy. “These are just photos of Ia- of Merlin and I leaving his hotel. That doesn’t mean anything.”

Poppy looks at him the way one might look at a puppy that doesn’t know it’s about to be put down. “Oh, bunny, keep going.”

Harry turns over the next photograph and his breath catches. His stomach makes a valiant effort to lunge for his throat. In black and white, he and Ian are tangled up in bed together, sleeping. There aren’t really any identifying features in the image, but something in Harry’s gut tells him it’s from the first night.

He flips through a few more, the bile rising with each one. They aren’t just of them sleeping. There’s one, taken at a slightly awkward angle, of Ian going down on Harry on the sofa. There’s a few of them in bed together, most with Ian pressing Harry into the mattress but one with Ian tied to the headboard while Harry fucks him. They’re almost all taken in Ian’s hotel room, but there’s one of them dancing together in the club and another one, darkly lit, of Harry with his legs around Ian’s waist, pinned up against the wall in an alleyway.

Harry shoves the file back across the table and presses a hand over his mouth, not caring if he ruins his lipstick. He’s torn between throwing up and hyperventilating, his entire body reacting with revulsion to the photos.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” Poppy says. “You two make such a pretty picture.” She closes the file and hands it back to her men, then folds her hands and rests them on the table.

“How…” Harry’s breath shudders, and he tries again, “How did you get those?”

“I’ve got an awful lot of men around. Some of them even have some photography skills.” She pulls off her purse, setting it on the table and rummaging in it before coming up with a single photo. “This one? This is my favourite.”

She sets it delicately on the table, and Harry peers at it, not wanting to look but needing to know. It’s not at the hotel. It’s not even at the club. It’s in his apartment. They’re not even doing anything, just kissing, Ian’s fingers curled into Harry’s hair, twined around each other like they can’t bear to be seperated even an inch.

“How did you get that?” Harry repeats. “I don’t...I would have noticed-”

Poppy purses her lips and shakes her head. “Oh, bunny, no. You really wouldn’t have. Charlie’s really good, you see. Fire escapes and window ledges...he served too, you know, like Merlin. Except he didn’t get a dishonourable discharge.”

“Charlie?” Harry repeats, choosing to ignore the other part because right now he really doesn’t need to think about what he does and doesn’t know about Ian. His mind flashes back to the bellhop. “The hotel is yours, isn’t it?”

Poppy laughs. “Well, not mine, per se. But I give Charlie’s father a very healthy sum to turn a blind eye to what exactly I like to do in it.”

“Are you going to turn us in?” Harry asks. “Why talk to me? Why not just send the photos to the police?”

“You’re still not getting it, bunny. If I wanted Merlin dead, he’d be dead. If I wanted him in handcuffs, he’d be in handcuffs.” She grins and winks. “Although, it looks like someone else might want him in handcuffs a bit more than I do.”

Harry contemplates dying of fear and embarrassment right there. Throwing up is also still in the cards. “Then what…?”

“My empire needs room to grow. Currently, Merlin is taking up too much space on the market. This is a perfect opportunity to show everyone that anything he can do, I can do just as well. Better, even. Because I’m not just building myself up. I’m going to take down everything he has, everything he loves, piece by piece. I could bump him off, sure. I could even do the same to that pretty Oriental girl he keeps around. His daughter…” Harry tenses, but Poppy smiles. “But that doesn’t prove anything. And the next hotshot would just keep stepping in. You can’t just cut off the head of the snake. You have to burn the body to ashes.”

It clicks. “As long as Merlin’s organization is around, there will be people who are loyal to him. You can’t just get rid of him and take over. No one would listen to you. But if you destroy it from the roots up, there’s nothing left to oppose you.”

“Now you’re getting it!” Poppy beams. “Good job, bunny! That’s right. So I have to scare some people first. Take away his shipments. And, maybe a few people will get hurt, but in the grand scheme of things, what’s a few people getting hurt when it unsettles everyone so much that they lose faith in their precious wizard? But, see, to do all that, I need information.”

“Well, you clearly have that in spades,” Harry mutters.

Poppy laughs. “Oh, this?” She gestures at the photo. “This is kid stuff. Our, or should I say _your_ , beloved Mr. Grey likes to keep things _very_ private. But you, little bunny, you have access to _everything_. The little unassuming plaything of a bootlegger?”

“I’m not his plaything,” Harry says hotly.

“Even better,” Poppy says. “Because his lover? His ordinary, innocent sweetheart who doesn’t come from his world and couldn't possibly know the first thing about putting all the pieces together? You’ve got the master key, bunny. You’ve got all the secrets.”

Harry says nothing. He can see where Poppy is going with this. She continues, “See, I think you’re really cute together. Believe me, this isn’t personal. But you’re going to tell me all of the lovely little secrets Merlin feeds you, or these photos are going right to the police. You understand?”

“I thought you didn’t want him arrested?” Harry says with a bravery he doesn’t feel. “Wouldn’t turning us over defeat the purpose of your little game?”

“It’s not a game, bunny, it’s business,” Poppy says. She drums her fingernails absentmindedly on the table and shrugs. “And I _do_ have a little pull with the police. Or, Charlie’s father does, and I have pull with Charlie’s father because I have Charlie. You see how this works? It wouldn’t be so hard to get, say, one of you off the hook. But imagine how that would look? Harry Hart, writer and possibly still heir to the Hart estate, involved in such a horrible scandal? Your poor family...and of course, everyone close to you would suddenly be under very close inspection. Why, even your precious Ian would suddenly find even his legitimate business practices a bit...soured. It’d be a bit faster than I’d like, true, but I could make it work.” She picks the photo up off the table and puts it back in her purse. “So, bunny. What’s it going to be?”

This isn’t a choice. It’s a death sentence. Harry thinks about Ian. About Olivia and Roxy and the life they haven’t had a chance to have yet. About James and Alistair and the little home they’ve built together. He thinks about his parents, about the disgust on their faces before he left the house. He thinks about Eggsy, shy and scared and maybe about to embrace who he is, if he just had someone to keep him safe.

He thinks about ‘I love yous’ and promises not to lie anymore.

“How do you know I won’t just tell Ian what’s going on?” he asks softly.

Poppy tisks. “I thought you were starting to be smart about this. I’ve got eyes on you, remember? Charlie is always watching. Or, at least, he is whenever I tell him to, which is always. If you so much as shake your tail the wrong way, he will know, which means I will know, which means those photos end up on some lovely officer’s desk. If I think Merlin even _suspects_ that you’re not quite his anymore, I will send them in. Am I making myself clear?”

“I am his,” Harry says. Poppy knows, so it doesn’t matter if he says it, and it’s a tiny reassurance to him.

She looks sympathetic and Harry’s stomach drops. “Oh, bunny. No you’re not.” She smiles brightly. “You’re mine now, aren’t you?”

And the worst part is, she’s right. He gives himself one last moment to pretend he’s not about to betray the man he loves, one more heartbeat to accept what he’s about to do, and he doesn't bother hiding the resignation in his voice as he finally says, “What do you want to know?”

Poppy claps her hands together, “Oh, this is going to be so much fun! Let’s start with his shipments, shall we? Know anything about those?”

“He has a shipment leaving on a boat called the Vega sometime tonight…”

[](https://i.imgur.com/36ViWfW.jpg)

***

“Harry?” Ian sounds caught between relieved and desperate as Harry walks back into La Hirondelle, and he pulls him into a tight hug. He pulls away, taking Harry’s face in his hands. “Please tell me you’re alright.”

“I’m fine,” Harry tells him. He tries for a smile. “My feet hurt a bit, though.” He lifts up the hem of his skirt to reveal his bare feet, stockings torn rather badly.

“What happened?” Ian asks. “I went to find you, but you were gone, and half the band had taken off. Harry-”

“I’m fine,” he repeats. “I promise, darling. One of the men…” He swallows hard. “He dragged me out back, and he…” His voice shakes, and Ian’s eyes widen. Harry adds immediately, “Nothing happened! One of the others came out to look for him and found us. He got him off me. But...oh, Ian, I was terrified.”

Ian pulls him into another hug. “I am _so_ sorry, love, if I’d have known-”

“But you didn’t know,” Harry says softly. “Even you can’t know everything. And it’s over. I’m safe. I’m here.”

Ian kisses his temple and presses their foreheads together. “I’ll stay with you tonight. Make sure he doesn’t try to follow you.”

Harry bites his lip. “Actually,” he says slowly, “I think I want to be alone tonight.”

Ian steps back, looking confused. “But-”

“It’s not you,” Harry says. “I’m not running away. I just...it’s been a very long night, and I think I need some time to myself. Please?”

Ian nods slowly. “I’ll call you a cab. And love, if you need _anything_ , I want you to call me, alright?”

“Of course,” Harry says. He kisses Ian sweetly on the lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Harry waits until he’s tucked safely in the cab, out of Ian’s sight, to cry.

The phone is already ringing when he steps into his flat, and he picks it up and answers dully, “Hello?”

“Did he believe it?” Poppy asks.

“Yes.”

“Good. It’s a bit of an ugly story, but people don’t tend to ask too many questions about those. Something about further traumatizing the victim.”

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Yes, you can, bunny. I believe in you. And if you don’t…well, you know what happens.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry says softly, and nearly gags on the words.

“Oh, don’t ma’am me,” Poppy says. “We’re friends, and to all my friends it’s Poppy.” She waits a heartbeat. “Go on, say it.”

“Yes, Poppy,” Harry says. He doesn’t have the energy to fight her.

“That’s good, bunny. Now, I gotta run. I’ll talk to you later, Harry!”

The call hangs up, and Harry sits there, phone still in his hand, blinking back tears that splash onto the floor in mascara-black tinged droplets. He just barely makes it to the toilet before his stomach gives into the nausea he's been feeling all night, and he throws up.


	21. Chapter 21

Harry is surprised when Ian knocks. Not because he’s not used to Ian coming over, even unannounced, but because Ian usually just walks in, now he has access to a key. Harry opens the door automatically and takes a step back to let Ian into the flat, and he doesn’t miss the way Ian is twisting his hands, fidgeting nervously.

“Everything alright?” Harry asks.

“I feel like I should be asking you that,” Ian tells him.

It takes Harry a moment to understand what he’s talking about, and then the events of last night hit him like a freight train. It takes him a minute to remember the lie he fed Ian.

“I’m fine,” he says. “No one followed me home or broke into my flat. See?” He gestures around. It’s a bit messy, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Ian glances towards the windows. “But you’ve been sitting alone in the dark?”

“We have this wonderful invention called electricity. Just because the curtains are closed doesn’t mean there’s no light.” He gestures to the wall sconce. “A miracle of modern technology.”

“You never close the curtains.”

He doesn’t. He likes the sunlight, likes the warmth and the feeling of strength it provides. It feels purer than a lightbulb, and it’s why his writing desk is as close to the window as he can get it. Normally he’d be pleased that Ian noticed such a small detail about him, but right now it just makes his stomach clench.

“Well, I did last night,” he says. He knows he’s being defensive, but he hopes Ian will write it off as paranoia about men trying to break in and snap his neck rather than snapping photographs.

Ian looks at him for a long moment, and Harry tenses. Then Ian takes a step closer and tugs Harry into his arms, and Harry collapses against him, burying his face in Ian’s neck and fighting back the tears that swell to the surface again. “Shh,” Ian murmurs. “It’s going to be alright. I’m so sorry I dragged you into this. I won’t let it happen again, I promise.”

Harry pulls away just enough to look Ian in the eye. “No! This has nothing to do with you!” The lie tastes awful on his tongue, but he persists, “Something like that could have happened to me anywhere, with or without knowing you. Honestly, given how I was before I met you, it was really only a matter of time.”

“Don’t say that.” Ian shudders. His fingers curl around the back of Harry’s neck so he can press their foreheads together, closing his eyes. Harry thinks he might be crying a bit too. “It was my club, my band, you were wearing a dress that I asked you to wear-”

“None of those things make it your fault,” Harry insists. He can’t believe he has to put this much effort into consoling Ian over something that didn’t even happen to him. He hates lying like this, but there’s really no other option for him. “Ian. Please listen to me.” He waits until Ian is looking at him again, and then continues, “Sometimes things like that happen. It’s not your fault, and it turned out alright in the end, so please don’t keep fussing over it. I’d really like to just move past it. Please, darling?” He uses the pet name as a plea, feeling almost dirty for it.

“If that’s what you want,” Ian says, but his voice shakes slightly. It hurts, Ian letting his guard down with Harry now that Harry has to throw his up.

“It is,” Harry says. He presses a chaste kiss to Ian’s lips. “I love you.” He does. He’s doing this because he does, and he feels all the worse for it.

“I love you too,” Ian tells him, like a dagger to Harry’s heart.

He’s not sure he can do this.

“How are Olivia and Roxy?” he asks, desperate to change the subject. “I didn’t really get a chance to say goodbye last night.”

“They’re worried about you, but they’re fine. I think they’re holed up in Olivia’s suite.”

“Aren’t you going to need her at some point?” Harry asks, and he really could not sound any less awkward about this. “I mean, business stuff and all.” He reminds himself to never be a proper spy. He would be awful at it.

Ian gives him a strange look. “I think I’m afforded a day off, Harry.”

“Even with everything with Poppy?”

Ian’s jaw clenches, and Harry does his best not to tense up. “I don’t want you to worry about Poppy,” Ian says. “In fact, I don’t want you to worry about my business at all.”

“But you promised me!” Harry blurts out. “I need to know about what’s going on! How am I supposed to keep myself safe if I don’t know what’s happening?”

Ian looks about to protest, but his eyes flick to the curtains again, and Harry knows what he’s thinking about. Ian deflates. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Harry doesn’t want Ian to apologize. Ian hasn’t done anything wrong. Harry’s the one who’s fucked everything up. “You’re just trying to protect me,” Harry says gently. “But you can’t do everything. Sometimes you need to let people protect themselves.” He thinks the words would feel kinder if he wasn’t trying to protect himself - and his family - by simultaneously betraying part of it.

Ian walks away from Harry and sits down at his desk chair, looking for all the world like he’s about to melt into a sad puddle on the hardwood. “Clearly I’ve been doing a magnificent job of that,” he mumbles.

Harry hugs his arms to his chest. He’s not sure how to respond. Ian looks up at him. “I really am taking the day off. After everything, I think I need it. I’m not...thinking especially clearly.”

Harry settles into his lap. “Talk to me. What’s going on?” This feels more natural, not the awkward, forced attempts to get Ian to talk, but their normal rhythm, Ian telling Harry snippets about his day and Harry listening sympathetically, soothing him, giving him a sense of normalcy he doesn’t get in his life otherwise.

“I thought, after Jack was taken care of, that the problems would stop. Or, at the very least, they’d happen less often. But they aren’t. Dotty called me last night, scared out of her wits because someone was watching their flat. And Thomas didn’t even have to phone. Have you looked at the papers this morning?” Harry shakes his head, and Ian continues, “Someone sank the Vega. It’s not even my ship. The crew survived, thank god, but what if they hadn’t? And other people use that boat too, so it’s not just my shipment at the bottom of the harbor. I can afford it, but not everyone can cope with losses like that.”

Harry shifts in Ian’s lap, telling himself he’s getting more comfortable, not squirming out of guilt. “That’s awful,” he murmurs.

“She doesn’t care who gets hurt. She’s so desperate to take me down, she’ll put anyone at risk.”

“Could it have been an accident?” Harry suggests softly. “How can you be sure it was Poppy? Sometimes ships sink without nefarious interference.” The words sound hollow to him, and he can tell Ian doesn’t believe them either.

“She was watching Dotty’s flat. Hell of a coincidence, making sure she doesn’t go to work the same night this happens.” Ian goes quiet, staring at nothing. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t just Jack who’s betrayed me.”

“Maybe. But you’ll figure it out. You’ll stop this.” Part of him even hopes that’s true. “I have faith in you.”

Ian smiles at him and strokes his hair back. “What would I do without you, hmm? You always know what to say.”

Harry smiles back, and it twists the knife in deeper. “I try my best.”

Ian kisses his forehead and scoops him up, Harry clutching onto his shoulders and wrapping his legs around Ian’s waist as he stands. “Come on,” he murmurs. “I think the bed would be more comfortable, don’t you?”

Harry bites his lip. “Darling, I’m really not in the mood-”

“I was planning on cuddling with you for a bit,” Ian interrupts him. “That’s all. Is that alright?”

“Oh. That’s...yes, I’d like that.”

“I missed you last night,” Ian tells him, moving into the bedroom and setting Harry down gently, then crawling onto the mattress next to him. “I don’t sleep nearly as well without you there.”

Harry didn’t sleep a wink last night, but he’s mostly certain that had nothing to do with Ian’s presence or lack thereof. He doesn’t say a word, just wraps himself around Ian, cuddling into his chest. Ian’s long fingers card through his hair soothingly. “Want me to read to you?”

“I’d like that.” It means he doesn’t have to talk.

Ian picks up the book on the nightstand, the one he’d left last time he slept over, and turns to the last page they were on. His voice is soft and comforting as he starts to read aloud, and Harry lets himself be lulled to sleep.

It’s evening when he wakes up again, Ian absent from the bed, the smell of fish frying drifting from the kitchenette to the bedroom. Harry drags himself out of bed, blanket bunched around his shoulders, and pads out.

Ian glances at him and smiles. “Hello, Sleeping Beauty.”

Harry comes up behind him, pressing his forehead into the space between Ian’s shoulder blades. He’s still not entirely awake yet, but he wants the contact.

Ian nudges him back. “Alright, love, come on. Out of the kitchen. I’ve got an open flame going, and you are very flammable right now.”

Harry lets the blanket drop to the floor and wraps his arms around Ian’s waist, not budging. Ian chuckles. “If I elbow you in the face, it’s your own fault.”

Harry just presses a little closer. Hazily, he asks, “Why did you leave the army?”

Ian stills briefly, and Harry realizes his mistake. Quickly, he adds, “I was just curious. You don’t really talk about it much.”

“I don’t talk about it much because there’s not much to say,” Ian tells him. “There was a war. I enlisted. When the war was over and they didn’t need my services anymore, I left.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, it was a bit more complicated than that,” Ian admits.

“Complicated how?”

Ian turns in Harry’s arms, taking his shoulders gently and guiding him back. “Give me a minute to finish dinner, and then I’ll tell you.”

Harry nods, and Ian goes back to the fish.

About ten minutes later, with two full plates and the blanket - and Harry and Ian - back on the bed, Ian says, “I didn’t just leave the army. I got a dishonourable discharge. Well, not exactly, but near enough.”

So Poppy hadn’t been lying about that. “Why?” Harry asks.

Ian looks at him. He doesn’t look ashamed, just tired. “Because I’m gay.”

Harry frowns. “I don’t understand.” If that’s the case, Ian should be in prison or...something.

“I was a good soldier. Did what I was told, didn’t question my orders. My squad trusted me.” Ian sighs. “But around the time the war ended, my superior officer pulled me aside. He knew I was gay, had know for a long time, but he hadn’t said anything because we needed soldiers.”

“How did he know?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly celibate. Hell, it was even encouraged sometimes. Not officially, mind you, but there were a lot of people like us in the army. There was a lot about ‘brotherly bonding’ and shit like that, but really there are two kinds of people who join up. Those who have something to prove and those who have something to gain. For a lot of queer people, it means gaining freedom. You don’t have to worry about settling down and finding a nice husband or wife because you’re too busy defending your country. It looks honourable and it’s...safe, in a sense, so long as you keep your preferences to yourself.”

“But you didn’t?”

Ian gives half a shrug. “A lot of the men I had sex with didn’t consider themselves gay. It was just a thing soldiers did sometimes, like a favour, getting each other off. But...people knew, sort of, that for some of us it was a little different. There was another man in our squad, Colin, and he and I...well, people knew. Closest thing I had to a long-term relationship before you, actually.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died.” Ian studies the bed, expression unreadable. “I was going to ask him about seeing each other after the war, maybe making our relationship more permanent. But I never got the chance.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. It’s almost strange to him, the idea that Ian had anyone else before him. Neither of them were priests, after all, but Harry has never had a relationship in his life. That Ian has....it doesn't bother him, but it’s a novel thought.

Ian gives him a small smile. “It’s alright. It’s in the past, and I’ve moved on. Still, he was the first man I think I ever really loved. And people could tell.”

“And they made you leave the army for it?”

“Yes and no.” Ian’s smile broadens a little. It’s surprisingly fond, the sort of look one gets thinking about a memory that was devastating at the time but is almost-not-quite funny in retrospect. “We didn’t need soldiers after the war, not in the same quantity that we’d had before. My tour wasn’t up yet, I couldn’t just leave. So he gave me a choice. “

“What kind of choice?”

“I could lie and leave for ‘medical’ reasons. He’d testify to my illness, and I’d have to keep up the facade long enough to convincingly get better, but it wouldn’t harm my reputation as a soldier.”

“Or?”

“Or, if I refused to cooperate, he’d ensure that my... _preferences_ were made known to some of the higher-ups, and at best I’d receive a bad conduct discharge, if not worse.”

Harry swallows hard, and the bite of fish he’d taken gets stuck in his throat. After a moment, he manges, “How did you decide?”

“I wasn’t going to live a lie. I wouldn’t have been able to go back to work for years after the war. I didn’t want to do that.”

“But you were risking everything else! You wouldn’t have been able to work for awhile, but eventually you could have gone back. Didn’t you tell me you aren’t...you know, open about being queer when it isn’t safe?” The irony of the parallel to his current situation is not lost on him.

“Yes,” Ian says. “Now. But this was years ago, and I was headstrong and impulsive and the man I loved had just died. I didn’t care about the consequences. And I got lucky. I had been valuable, a good soldier. Loyalty is a powerful thing. They didn’t report me for sodomy, didn’t even give me an official dishonourable discharge, although it was made perfectly clear that in their eyes, it was the same thing. I got to live my life again.”

“What did you do?” Harry asks. “Once you got out?”

“Went back to Scotland for awhile. I’d forbidden Olivia from enlisting, so she was running things and I just...let her, for a few more months. I was a mess; heartbroken, haunted by things I’d done under orders, worried that at any moment the army was going to come back and change my sentence, snatch up whatever I had left.”

Harry reaches out and squeezes Ian’s hand. It seems to be the right thing to do, because Ian grips back. “Eventually, I pulled myself together. Took control back from Olivia, started working again. Forgot about Colin, more or less, and tried not to let the nightmares bother me. It took a couple years for them to fade, but I don’t get them anymore, most of the time.” He laughs, and it’s strange, not quite bitter, but not sad and certainly not happy. “Turns out, no matter what choice I picked, it would have taken me the same amount of time to get my life back to anything resembling normal.” He looks Harry in the eye. “But I don’t regret it. If I could do it over, I would do it exactly the same. There’s a difference between keeping yourself safe and living a lie, and I was not going to do the latter.”

Harry’s stomach churns, and he pushes his plate away. He can’t do this. Oh god, he can’t do this. “I need to tell you something,” he says, the words heavy as anchors.

Ian tilts his head and frowns, but before either of them can say anything, there’s a loud banging on the door. Ian tenses, and looks towards it. “Hold that thought.” Harry doesn’t miss the way his hand goes to his jacket pocket, and the thought that Ian might be carrying a weapon here, in bed with him, suddenly dawns on Harry, making his stomach drop uncomfortably.

“It’s just us!” Roxy shouts. “Come on, open up!”

Ian relaxes, and his hand drops to his side. He rolls his eyes, and looks to Harry. “Can I let them in?”

“If you don’t, Roxy’s either going to use the spare key, or she’s going to break my door down for dramatic effect. So you might as well.”

Ian stands, making his way to the door. “Just a minute!” he calls through it, and the banging stops.

“You better be decent,” Roxy’s voice takes on a clearly teasing tone.

Ian opens the door and gives her and Olivia a look. “If we weren’t, you’d better believe I would have ignored you. We were eating dinner.”

Harry moves to the doorway, and Roxy raises her eyebrows skeptically. “In the bedroom?”

“Not everyone is as picky about eating at a table as you are, love,” Olivia tells her. She looks at Harry, rolling her eyes fondly. “She’ll leave ashes in whatever the nearest thing even remotely resembling an ashtray is, but no, eating on the sofa is too much.”

“There is a difference between eating and smoking!” Roxy protests.

“Both things go in your mouth, and smoking makes more of a mess,” Olivia says. “I really don’t see the difference.” But the teasing is clearly affectionate, and it simultaneously makes Harry feel warmer and douses him with ice water. He’s hurting them, too. Not just if he tells Ian, but if he doesn’t.

“You okay?” Roxy asks, startling Harry back to the present. Everyone is looking at him.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks, going for cheerful and ending up somewhere around sanguine.

Roxy gives him a look. “Maybe because you were attacked last night?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry says. He looks towards Ian, hoping for some backup. He hates lying to Ian’s face. He doesn’t want to do it to Roxy and Olivia too.

Ian obliges him. “Harry and I talked about this earlier. Now he just wants to move past it.”

Olivia nods. “Of course.” She offers out the package she’s holding, and Harry takes it. “To replace the heels you broke,” she says. “This pair should be a little sturdier.”

Harry unwraps them and smiles. “They’re lovely. Thank you.”

She grins. “Please. I love shopping on Merlin’s dime. And when it’s for you, I don’t even feel bad about it.”

“You never feel bad about it,” Ian says, sounding amused.

“Nope,” she admits cheerfully. “It’s my money too.”

“And you can have it all when I’m dead,” Ian tells her. Harry flinches, and Ian turns serious, wrapping his arm around Harry’s shoulders and rubbing gently. “Why don’t you put the shoes with your dress, love?”

Harry nods and leaves the room. He knows, given the way Ian beckons Olivia closer, that they’re whispering about something, presumably him. Roxy follows him into the bedroom and sits on the bed, swinging her feet and picking at the leftovers on his plate while he retrieves one of the packages from under the bed so he can wrap up the shoes with it.

“You’re really okay, right?” she asks. “I mean, we don’t have to talk about it. I just want to be sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine,” Harry tells her. “Really.”

She shudders. “It doesn’t feel real, you know? It’s not the sort of thing that should happen at Ian’s club. It’s supposed to be a safe place, you know? Where we can dance and be ourselves and kiss who we want and not have to be afraid of people like that.”

Harry closes his eyes. He hates this lie, he really does.

“I mean, I could picture something like that happening at work,” she says. “If the guys at the docks knew, there’s a lot of them who’d want to do awful things to me, you know? Try to ‘fix’ me, like the way I am means I’m broken. But not at Ian’s club. Not there.”

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” Harry says through gritted teeth.

“Right. Sorry.” She hops of the bed and squeezes his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Harry smiles and nods, but he doesn’t feel it. He pushes the package back under the bed, and walks out of the bedroom, Roxy following after.

Ian and Olivia are still whispering to each other, but they straighten up when Harry enters the room. Harry doesn’t question them. It’s one more thing he’ll know, and right now he wants to know as little as possible.

“Why don’t you call me tomorrow?” Ian tells Olivia, “We’ll discuss this then.”

She nods and takes Roxy’s arm. “We just wanted to check in on Harry,” she says. “I’ll talk to you later. Bye!” She all but drags her girlfriend from the flat before Harry has a chance to bid either of them farewell.

Ian looks at Harry. “Are you going to ask ab-”

“No,” Harry tells him. “Not tonight.” He holds out his arms, and Ian hugs him. “Can we go to bed?” Harry asks softly. “I’m exhausted.”

“Sleeping the day away will do that to you,” Ian teases. He tucks a stray lock of Harry’s hair back behind his ear. “Let’s take care of the dishes first, and then we can go back to bed.”

It’s an agreeable compromise. At the sink, Harry dries while Ian washes, putting everything back in it’s rightful place. Over the sound of the faucet, Ian asks, “What were you going to tell me?”

“Oh.” Harry bites his lip. “I forgot.”

He can’t tell Ian. Forget his own life and reputation, he can’t risk Poppy ruining Roxy’s. Harry doesn’t trust sailors to begin with, and Roxy’s safety is more important than his own. To say nothing of her uncles and Amelia, and even Olivia and Ian himself. There’s too much at stake, and it’s an impossible decision for him to make. He just hopes he’s making the right choice.

“Are you carrying a gun?” he asks instead, thinking of whatever might be hidden in Ian’s pocket.

Ian frowns in confusion and then understands. “I told you, I don’t like guns.” He turns off the water and dries his hands, then reaches into his inside pocket and draws out a small knife.

“Do you always carry that?” Harry asks, forcing himself to look away from it. His stomach twists again.

“I usually have at least one blade on me, sometimes more. Why?”

Harry gives his best nonchalant shrug. “Just curious.”

“You don’t like that I carry weapons, do you?”

“No,” Harry says honestly, “I don’t. But I’m not going to tell you not to.”

“I’ve quit smoking for you,” Ian says. “Well, more or less,” he amends. “You think I wouldn’t do this?”

“It’s a safety thing,” Harry squirms under Ian’s gaze. “I’m not going to ask you to leave yourself defenseless. Especially not with your job.”

Ian sets the knife on the counter. “I wouldn’t be defenseless if both my hands were tied behind my back.” He cups Harry’s chin. “I can take care of myself. And I don’t need a knife to do it. If it really bothers you, I won’t carry it.”

“Just...maybe not in my flat?” Harry compromises. “We should be safe in here, and I don’t want it in our bed.”

“I can do that,” Ian agrees easily. He kisses Harry’s forehead, then his lips. “Come on. It’s still a little early for bed, but I can read to you some more, if you’d like.”

“I think I’ll write a little,” Harry says, “but you’re free to continue on you own.”

He sets himself up with his lap desk, bent over his work, and Ian doesn’t try to read over his shoulder, just settles in next to him with a different book than the one he’d been reading before.

Harry doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up briefly in the middle of the night to find the lights out and his lap desk and pages set neatly next to the bed, Ian’s book on the nightstand and the man on his side with his back to Harry, his breathing soft and even.

Harry watches him for a moment, and nearly jumps out of his skin when the phone rings. He throws of the covers and hastens to answer it, fetching it from where it sits on the table and standing in the doorway to the bedroom so he can keep an eye on Ian. “Hello?”

“Hey, bunny,” Poppy says.

“Not today,” Harry hisses at her. “I don’t have anything.”

“Aw, sounds like someone’s a little grumpy,” Poppy coos. Harry wants to rip out her patronizing tongue. “Well, then, I’ll check in tomorrow. But remember, bunny, if you start putting me off, then-”

“Yes, I know what happens,” Harry says. He looks back at Ian’s prone form. “I promise you, I’ll have more information soon.” He hangs up.

Guilt gnaws at his stomach and he curls up on the bed as far from Ian as he possibly can. He doesn’t deserve his partner’s embrace.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slurs and general homophobia.

He wakes up to the phone ringing again, and he nearly panics when Ian climbs easily out of bed to answer it, before he says, “Aye, it’s me. Harry’s still asleep.” Harry relaxes against the pillows again. Olivia, most likely. She’d said she’d call. He curls into a tighter ball on the mattress, torn between listening in to their conversation and having nothing to do with it.

In the end, the former wins out, and he creeps to the door, pressing himself against the wall and holding still to pick up on Ian’s voice.

“So have you found him yet?”

Harry can’t hear Olivia’s half of the conversation, but given that Ian’s next statement is, “We need to find him. Even if he has no connection to Poppy, he’s going to pay for hurting Harry,” Harry is pretty sure he knows who they’re talking about.

He clenches his fists. Poppy won’t like that, but it was her stupid story in the first place, and Harry’s not going to take the blame for it if he can help it. Of course, that implies he has any amount of power over this situation.

“In the meantime, I’m sending one of our men to keep and eye on Dotty and Cecil. I’m hoping that will make her feel a little safer. And we’ll try again with the shipment. I’ve already started arranging with Kingsman, we should be able to send it out by the end of the week. Can you start looking into other ships we can contract?” A pause, a laugh. “No, we’re not buying our own boat. Do you know how much paperwork that would entail?”

And that’s information Harry can give Poppy. He hates himself a little bit.

“I’ve already told Tequila we’re going to triple check _everyone_ Morgana brings in for the band.” He pauses for Olivia again and then says, “No. If there is a mole besides Jack, I don’t think it’s her. She doesn’t know enough. But things slip through the cracks sometimes, and it’s possible she’s bringing some of Poppy’s men in without even realizing it. We need to be careful.”

Harry’s heart nearly breaks when Ian says, “I don’t want Harry going back there. It’s like a curse. Every time he walks through those doors, the universe hurts him a little more. He might not survive it next time.” Pause. “No, I’m not being superstitious, I’m being practical.”

Harry can’t help himself. He pushes the door open fully and asks, “Do I get a say?”

Ian startles, eyes wide when he looks to Harry. “How long have you been standing there?”

“I just woke up,” Harry lies. “I thought you didn’t believe in things like curses?”

“I don’t,” Ian says. “Christ, you sound like Olivia.” From here, Harry can hear a soft splutter over the phone. Ian sighs. “It’s a pattern, Harry. Every time you go there-”

“I leave in tears, yes I know.” Harry moves to sit next to Ian, placing a hand gently over his where it’s resting on Ian’s knee. “But you can’t assume that will happen every time.”

“I don’t want to have this argument again.”

“Then don’t start it. Please don’t fight me on this. I’ve spent too long being afraid. It’s time I got a little more fearless, don’t you think?”

“Fearless is just another word for needlessly reckless. A little bit of fear keeps you alive.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry insists. “I’m not going to die.” Now that he’s her direct link to Ian, Poppy won’t let that happen. He thinks.

“Colin told me that too, you know. I told him he was being reckless, and he didn’t listen to me. Said it was going to be fine, and took a bullet to the chest. I held him while he died in my arms!” Ian’s voice rises in pitch and volume, his accent thickening with the heightened emotion.

“This isn’t a battlefield,” Harry tells him. “And I’m not Colin.” He wants to reach out and touch, to hug Ian and console him, but he’s not sure how. Ian’s shoulders are tight, his entire body drawing in on itself.

“I know,” Ian says. “I know.” He lets Harry drag him a little closer when Harry hesitantly pulls him into his chest, resting his chin on top of Ian’s head and stroking up and down his arm. “I know I’m being overbearing. I just…”

“You lost the man you loved once,” Harry says. “You’re scared it might happen again.” He might never have been in a relationship himself, but he’s read and written plenty. “I promise you, I’m going to be careful. But I’m not going to lock myself away again.” It’s a half-truth at best, but it’s what he needs to do and what Ian needs to hear. “You showed me there were parts of myself that were worth embracing. I don’t want to hide them away again.”

Ian sniffs and rubs at his eyes before any sign of tears can betray him. He chuckles softly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

There’s a faint cough, and they both look towards the phone, resting on the table where Ian left it. He picks it up again. “Did you hear all that?”

Harry leans in close and picks up the tail end of Olivia’s response. “-an’t blame me for listening if you don’t hang up.”

“You could have hung up first,” Ian points out.

Olivia makes a dismissive noise. “You should listen to Harry. He’s right, you know.”

“Thank you for the assistance,” Harry says into the receiver.

“Any time.”

Harry pulls away, resting a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Why don’t you finish your conversation with her, and I’ll make some breakfast before you have to go?”

Ian nods and brings the phone fully back to his ear. “Alright, it’s just me and you now, so you and Harry can’t keep ganging up on me.” Harry steps into the kitchenette, positioning himself as far away as possible so he doesn’t have to listen to the rest of the conversation. The sickness is twisting at his stomach again, and even though he’s preparing breakfast, he doubts he’ll be able to eat a bite.

When Ian leaves, having secured a promise that Harry will see him tonight, Harry sits down at his writing desk and looks over the pages from last night. He’d been exhausted writing them, half delirious, but the scrawl isn’t half bad from a plot perspective. But it’s outlining something he doesn’t want to see; his own lies on paper, Eliza hiding something from Hamish. He’s not sure what yet. She hasn’t told him. It won’t be the same thing of course, likely a pregnancy or something more appropriate to the fictional situation.

He can’t bring himself to change it. It feels a bit like taking confession, back when he followed his parent’s strict rules on religion, purging himself as he admits the hurt he’s causing himself and others. Much like confession, it doesn’t make him feel much better afterwards.

He takes a walk. There are only a few people still on the edges of this, people he can ask for advice without putting them too much at risk.

Amelia looks only moderately surprised to see him. There are a handful of customers milling about, so Harry busies himself in the nature section, poking at the entomology books as if he didn't own most of them. Her store smells, as always, like flowers and moulding paper, and its an island of familiarity that Harry clings to desperately.

When the bell chimes, indicating the customers have left, Amelia leaves the register to lean against the shelf next to him. “Hello, Harry. It's been awhile.”

It's been a few weeks. It feels closer to a few years.

“Is everything okay?” she prompts when he doesn't say anything. “How are things with Mr. Grey?”

Harry swallows. He glances out the front window, and then turns his back to it. “What if,” he says, very softly, “I was lying to him about something? Hypothetically.”

Amelia arches her eyebrows. “I suppose it depends.”

“Everything is fine between us. But...what if I'm keeping something from him, and it's for his own good, but ultimately it will hurt him in just about every way possible?”

“If it's going to hurt him, I think he deserves to know, don't you? Hypothetically.”

“Yes.” Harry sighs. “But what if telling him now means he'll go through all the same hurts? Is it better to keep it from him as long as I can, to ensure the hurt doesn’t touch him for as long as possible, or should I reveal it to him now? And what if my decision hurts others as well?” He swallows hard and adds lamely, “Hypothetically.”

Of course, the hurt won’t be precisely the same. Poppy will tear down Ian’s empire piece by piece regardless, and when or if Harry tells him about her blackmail, or Ian finds out himself, Harry will have to suffer the indignity of the law. Others will be collateral damage; Poppy doesn’t much care for the safety of Ian’s friends and employees, but so too will Harry’s found family be hurt if those photographs ever come to light. The only difference, of course, is whether Ian hurts from not knowing and eventual betrayal, or if he hurts from Poppy’s coercion of Harry and an inability to stop her. Either way, helplessness is the name of the game.

Amelia looks concerned. “Given that I’m not in your shoes, I can’t tell you what to do. But you have to think about what causes the least harm to the least amount of people.” She glances around and lowers her voice further, “Will lying to the man you love hurt him and you, but keep more people safe? Or will it bring more misery for everyone involved?”

Harry thinks about it. It would hurt Ian, certainly, and the guilt is eating away at him already, but it would keep his family safe. Telling the truth would hurt everyone.

“Thank you for your advice,” he says softly. She’s solidified the admittedly awful decision he already knew he had to make.

“I don’t know what you’ve gotten mixed up in, but I want you to be careful. There are a lot of people who love you.”

There are a lot of people who love Ian too, and Harry is betraying them all.

He forces a smile. “I will, I promise.”

She reaches out and hugs him, an unusual gesture, but Harry hugs her back, closing his eyes. She kisses his cheek and releases him, then teases lightly, “This time the advice is free, but next time I’m charging you.”

It breaks some of the tension in the air, and Harry relaxes minutely, his smile shaping into something a little more real.

Still, it doesn’t stop him feeling like a wolf in sheep’s clothing as he steps into the lobby of Ian’s hotel. The air itself feels more sinister, knowing the building is in Poppy’s well-manicured grasp. He steps into the elevator, and the doors start to clang shut, but a hand stops them, and Charlie steps in after him. He gives Harry a smile that is possibly supposed to look pleasant, but resembles a disgusted sneer.

Harry swallows hard and tries not to look at him.

“How did you like my photographs?” Charlie asks as the lift begins to ascend. It’s a clear taunt. “I thought they were rather good. Even the most disgusting things can resemble art if you shoot them well enough.”

Harry tries not to rise to the bait even as his heart rate skyrockets.

“I think my favourite is the one where a queer fucks a transvestite in an alley like a common streetwalker.” Harry can’t suppress his flinch, but he keeps his mouth shut. Charlie smirks. “I call it ‘Depravity of the Fairies.’”

When Ian says queer, he makes it sound almost sweet. Fairy is a joke, but not a nasty one. But from Charlie’s mouth, the words are dripping with an acid that turns Harry’s stomach, making him nauseous.

Charlie appears to take his silence as a victory, because his smirk broadens. The elevator clangs to a stop, and he makes a sweeping gesture towards the doors. “Your floor, sir.”

Harry steps out, fists clenched, his whole body trembling with barely hidden tension. He can feel Charlie’s eyes on his back. Just before the elevator doors close again, Charlie tells him, “I’ll give Poppy your best.”

Harry flinches sharply at the sound of the doors banging shut. He waits until the elevator disappears to the floor below before pressing his back to the wall and sliding down it, fighting to get his breathing under control as it escapes from his lungs in choked gasps of air. He can’t cry. Ian can’t know anything is wrong. Everything’s so messy already; he doesn’t need another thing to add to the pile.

When he feels he has himself under control, he gets slowly to his feet. There’s a mirror in the hallway, and he checks his reflection. He looks fine. Normal. But it’s like looking at a stranger, an emptiness in his eyes blinking back at him through the glass. He tries for a smile, but it looks more like a grimace, and he gives up.

Ian is on the sofa going over contracts, his reading glasses slipping down his nose. He looks up when the door opens, smiling broadly and pushing them back up again. “Hello, love.”

Harry presses a kiss to his cheek, but Ian grabs him around the waist and pulls him down onto the sofa. “I missed you.”

“You saw me this morning.”

Ian grins at him and rubs his nose against Harry’s. “Yes, I did. What sort of spell do you have me under, Harry Hart, that I can’t even go a few hours without missing you?”

The warmth blooming inside Harry is completely real. “I think I should be asking you that, _Merlin_ ,” he teases. He pokes at the papers. “What are these?”

“Olivia picked out a couple of boats that look promising. We’re not the only ones scrambling to make shipment, and the sailors know it.” He spreads out the documents so Harry can see them a little better. “These three look like the best options. The price is fair, they have good reputations, and they’re willing to do business under the table so long as we’re willing to overlook the fact that they do deals with other people as well.”

Harry studies the titles. The handwriting isn’t the best, the paper curling and smelling slightly of salt, but he can read the names easily enough. Mischief, Daring, Inverness. He can remember those. “Which one are you leaning towards?”

There’s no reason for Ian to think his interest suspicious. Harry’s been asking plenty of questions lately, and not just for his novel. He really does want to understand how Ian does business. It’s just now he has an ulterior motive.

“Officially, I’m not favouring any of them,” Ian says. He wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulders, and Harry snuggles against his side. “We really do need to consider what the best option is, and I haven’t made a deal yet.”

“But…?” Harry smiles playfully, because that’s what he would normally do.

Ian laughs. “But I might be slightly in favour of the Inverness. Scottish pride and all that.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Scotland?”

Harry nods, toying with the button on Ian’s cuff for something to do with his hands. Ian contemplates for a moment, and then says, “Scotland was never really my home. I feel connected to it, and I go back there on occasion, but I wouldn’t say I miss it. Not in the way I miss England or America.”

“You miss America?” Harry asks, surprised.

“I do spend a lot of time there,” Ian points out. “I’ll always love England better, but I do miss America. New York is lovely.”

“Lovelier than London?”

Ian looks down at him and smiles. “Well, London has one distinct advantage.”

“What’s that?”

Ian presses a brief kiss to his lips and murmurs, “New York doesn’t have you.”

Harry’s heart melts, stinging hot droplets dripping down to his stomach and eating at the flesh. He curls closer to Ian and asks, “Can we order in tonight? I don’t much feel like going out.”

“Of course.”

Harry barely manages to keep anything down. Ian asks after his novel, and Harry skirts the issue, explaining briefly that he’s encountered a new plot twist that Ian will have to wait until it’s published to read about. Ian retaliates by teasing that the author’s partner really should get sneak peaks, especially when a character in the novel is based on him, but he doesn’t press the issue further, kissing Harry’s cheek and telling him that he can’t wait to see the finished version.

Harry wonders if Ian will still feel that way by the time the novel is done, or if by that time he’ll want nothing to do with Harry.

After dinner, Ian turns on the radio and holds out his hands. “Dance with me.”

It’s not a waltz. “I don’t know how to do this one.” But he takes Ian’s hands anyway.

Ian grins, nudging him into position. “I do recall you mentioning that your dance education was lacking. It’s fine.”

“But-”

“Just follow my lead. Tango isn’t so bad if you have a partner who knows what they’re doing.”

Harry’s partner knows what he’s doing - and Harry was right, Ian really does know how to tango, and he knows it very, very well - but Harry still manages to trip over more steps than he gets right. But there’s no one in the room but them, and Ian is laughing and Harry can’t help but laugh with him at the ridiculousness of it all, and when the song ends he collapses back on the sofa.

“I’m afraid I may be a bit of a lost cause,” he tells Ian mournfully.

Ian straddles his lap, pressing playful kisses along his hairline. “Not a lost cause. You just need a few more lessons.”

Harry arches up into his touch, and purrs, “Care to give me another one, teacher?”

Ian hesitates, stilling at the suggestive tone in Harry’s voice, and Harry freezes too. Ian shakes his head minutely and climbs off of Harry, who frowns. “Darling?” he asks carefully.

Ians jaw clenches. “It’s fine. I’m just not in the mood tonight.”

Harry isn’t sure if he’s allowed to touch or not, but he approaches Ian slowly, laying a hand on his waist, and when Ian doesn’t pull back Harry wraps his arms around him. Ian tucks him face into the crook of Harry’s neck. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“Don’t apologize,” Harry tells him. Honestly, it’s probably for the best. “Why don’t we go to bed, and you can read to me some more?”

Ian bites his lip. “Not tonight, love. If it’s alright with you, I think I’m going to go to sleep. I’ve got a very early meeting tomorrow.”

“How early?”

“Two in the morning.”

Harry whistles. “Really?”

Ian shrugs. “I need to move fast if I want to get the shipment out on time. And meeting at odd times decreases the likelihood that people will find out what’s going on. Even Tequila doesn’t know yet about the shipping contracts. Just you and Olivia.”

“Oh.”

Ian kisses Harry’s cheek. “You’re welcome to stay up if you’d like. Just be quiet about it.”

“Alright,” Harry says. “I’ll be in soon.”

Ian pulls the bedroom door closed, leaving just a crack. After a minute, Harry sees the light go off.

He stands and moves over to the desk, pulling open the drawers. The top one just has writing utensils and spare paper, but the middle one has several folders full of documents. Harry takes those out and opens the first one.

It’s Dotty’s file. There are papers detailing her pay schedule and her time off. Her address is listed as well, and a photograph of her, beaming at the camera, is included. Harry closes the file and sets it aside. Poppy has already hurt that poor woman enough.

He flips through the others. Ian has one for every member of his staff, or, at least, every member Harry has met and then some. Even Olivia has one, considerably thicker than the rest, and including a copy of her adoption papers. There’s a recent photo of her in the front, but there’s another one with the adoption papers. Olivia is much shorter in it, her face rounder with youth. Ian has an arm wrapped around her shoulder, looking down at her fondly. She’s smiling up at him in return.

 Harry traces his fingers gently over the edges of the photograph, then closes that file too.

He goes searching for one in particular. He’s already decided he’s not going to tell Poppy about these, consequences be damned (and how will she know anyway? He has plenty of other information to give her for the time being). He won’t throw any more innocent people to the sharks than he absolutely has to, and he won’t play god with their lives. But there is a photograph he wants to see.

Ginger and Tequila’s files are stacked on top of each other towards the bottom of the pile. He opens them both together, spreading them out on the desk. Both have two photographs, the standard headshot that everyone has, and then one of the couple. Tequila’s file has him with a cowboy hat - which explains his habitual gesture - juggling empty beer bottles that a black woman with wavy hair is tossing to him. Ginger’s file has her in Tequila’s arms, him scooping her up bridal style while she laughs and bats at him playfully. They’re wearing the same clothes in both pictures, so Harry assumes they were taken the same day, and when he turns over the photographs, the words _first anniversary_ are inked on the back of both in Ian’s neat handwriting.

Ginger really is every bit as pretty as Tequila says, and if his gushing over her didn’t make it clear enough, the photographs show a couple very much in love. Harry’s heart aches for them.

He closes the files and is about to put them all back in the drawer when a thought hits him. He goes digging, but there isn’t a file for Jack.

He puts the stack away and pokes around in the other drawers. Most of them are empty, but tucked into the very back of the bottom left drawer is a solitary folder for one Jack Daniels. Harry opens it carefully.

Without the bruises and gashes on his face, Harry might almost say the codenamed Whiskey was an attractive man. Almost. Harry really has never been a fan of facial hair, and while Jack’s moustache is rather impressive and clearly well kept, it really does nothing for Harry. That, and Jack’s eyes, which are admittedly sparkling, but it’s a dark sort of pleasure, sending chills skating down Harry’s spine as he remembers that look being directed at him the night Jack died.

Ian gets that look sometimes, but even then it doesn’t seem so sinister. Harry supposes context is everything.

There’s a short note tucked in among the pay stubs and leave notices. It’s in Ian’s handwriting again and says: _Compromised. Not to be trusted._ Harry swallows hard and turns the note over. On the back, there’s an additional scrawl: _Not alone?_

Harry shivers and snaps the folder shut, taking care not to slam the drawer in his haste to have it out of his sight. Ian doesn’t appear to have a file on Poppy, or if he does it’s not kept in the desk, and Harry decides to call it a night. He can always search tomorrow morning after Ian leaves.

He moves to the bedroom, turning off the light before opening the door. He sheds his clothes quickly, leaving his undergarments on, and steps over the puddle of fabric, kicking it to the side so Ian won’t trip over it when he gets up. Then he climbs into bed. Ian barely stirs, his hand flattening briefly against the mattress next to him as if curious why Harry is so far away, but Harry can’t bring himself to touch Ian right now.

It proves to be a moot point; Ian scoots closer to Harry and wraps him up, pulling Harry’s back against his chest. Harry lets him, biting his lip, a single tear dripping down from his watering eyes.

He doesn’t quite manage to fall asleep, drifting hazily in and out of full consciousness, so when the big hand on the clock finally hits one and Ian drags himself out of bed, he doesn’t so much wake Harry up as nudge him back towards a more alert state.

Ian moves fluidly, silently, not even bothering to turn the lights on as he dresses, and Harry’s eyes are adjusted to the dark enough that as he squints, pretending to sleep, he can see his partner’s worried look.

It melts away as Ian looks towards the bed again, and then he comes to sit back down on it, finishing the final buttons on his shirt and leaning over Harry. He presses a kiss to his temple, and Harry can’t help but lean into it.

Ian pauses. “Did I wake you?” he murmurs.

Harry slowly blinks his eyes all the way open, feigning waking up. “Ian?”

Ian smiles and kisses him again. “Go back to sleep, love. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Harry waits until he hears the hallway door close before sitting up in bed, pulling his knees to his chest. A minute or so later, the phone rings, loud as a siren in the silence of the bedroom, and Harry jumps out of his skin.

It takes him a moment to answer, tussling with the thought that if it’s for Ian’s work, not only might it be an invasion of Ian’s privacy, but that it would be one more thing he’d have to tell Poppy.

He can always hang up if it’s work related.

He picks up the phone and answers carefully, “Hello?”

“Hi, bunny,” Poppy coos, and Harry nearly has a heart attack.

“What are you doing?” he hisses. “What if Ia-Merlin had answered?”

“Then I’d be very impressed, considering he just left the hotel.”

Harry freezes, and she hums, “I don’t just pay Charlie to look pretty, remember? Admittedly, he doesn’t usually take the night shift, but he’s not the only boy at the hotel on my payroll.”

Right. Harry had almost forgotten about Charlie, and the reminder makes him sick to his stomach again. “You can’t keep calling me every night,” he says. “You do realize it takes time to acquire information?”

“Does that mean you don't have anything for me?” Poppy tisks, disappointed.

It takes every ounce of willpower he has, plus a sharp reminder to himself of what will happen if he doesn't, for him to admit, “Well, actually, I do.”

There's a sound he thinks might be her clapping. “Oh, do tell!”

“Merlin is leaving for a meeting right now. He plans on sending a replacement shipment for the one you sunk by the end of the week. He's working on contracting a ship.”

“Well, he is resourceful, I'll give him that,” Poppy says grudgingly. “Determined too.” Her voice turns sickly sweet again. “Any idea which ship?”

“He's still deciding between the Mischief, the Daring, and the Inverness.”

“Let me guess which one he's leaning towards.” Poppy sounds amused. “He can use that pretty British voice of his all he wants, but you can't take the Scot out of Scotland.”

It's a sharp jolt; Harry hadn't known if Poppy knew about Ian's heritage, but he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. After all, she knows about Olivia being Ian's daughter. “If you know so much about him, I really don’t see why you need me,” Harry mumbles.

Poppy catches that. “I know the old news, bunny. You’re keeping me updated with all the juicy new gossip. So. Our wizard is looking to get a boat.”

“Be careful with that,” Harry says quickly. “Merlin told me that only Olivia and I knew about his plans, so if you do anything too quickly, it will just throw suspicion back on me. Merlin would never suspect Olivia.”

Poppy hums. “Oh, you’re right. Clever thinking. You’ll keep me posted with who knows, of course?”

“Of course,” Harry says, and wants to cut his tongue out. He adds, “He really does think there’s another mole besides Jack. If you want me to keep doing this, keep that in mind. He’s looking for suspicious behavior.”

“Like you rooting around in his room for the books he keeps?”

Harry fists clench. “Books?” he quieres, feigning confusion.

“His files,” Poppy says. “Have you found them yet? They’re a very dull read. Once you get everyone’s address, you don’t really need them anymore. Oh, but if you see any new hires send that info my way, why don’t you?” She pauses thoughtfully. “He is clever, though. Or maybe I’m just being a bit sloppy. Hard to tell, you know, people never like to admit to their own flaws, even in their own mind. And Jack? Ugh.” Harry can almost see her face wrinkle up in displeasure. “Horribly unprofessional. Not a lick of business sense. Not to mention droning on and on about _noble intentions_. Honestly, Merlin might have even done me a favour. Mouthy brat would probably have come for me next. He _really_ hates this business.”

Harry doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know more about Jack. He knows everything he wants to already.

Instead he says, “Merlin is looking for your men. The one you told me to say attacked me? He’s out for revenge.”

Poppy scoffs. “You think this is the first time I’ve thrown away a used torpedo? I’ll nudge him back into Merlin’s path, have him swear it was just about hating the queers, you know how it is, and problem solved. No links to me.”

“Is that the first time you’ve put...your people...in La Hirondelle?”

“Nosy little bunny.” Poppy laughs. “That’s not really your business, now is it?” She clicks her tongue, and Harry would almost say she sounds _bored_. “What about that new bartender? The cute one, from Kingsman? He was at the club the other night.”

“That was a one-off,” Harry says quickly. “He’s not involved there.”

Poppy pauses, and then drawls, “Uh-oh. Someone sounds a little defensive.” There’s the sound of paper flipping. “Gary ‘Eggsy’ Unwin. Cute boy. He’s new, not much interest to us yet. I’ll be keeping an eye on him, though. See if he’s as up-and-coming as he looks.” She sighs happily. “I do love this job. Honestly, half of it is looking at pretty pictures.”

Harry grimaces. Poppy doesn’t seem outwardly hateful, but she makes him feel...objectified, he thinks is the right word. He thinks he might even prefer Charlie’s slurs. At least the bellhop is straightforward about his degradation of people like Harry. None of this pretending to be open-minded while treating them like adorable peculiarities.

“Is that it?” Poppy asks. “No more little snippets you’d like to share with me?”

“That’s it,” Harry says. “It’s barely been two days, and I’ve already given you plenty.”

“I wouldn’t say _plenty_. But it’s a start. Good work, bunny. Talk soon!” And she hangs up.

Harry puts the phone down. He rolls over to Ian’s side of the bed and buries his face in the pillow, inhaling Ian’s scent and basking in the leftover warmth. He sniffles, rubbing at his eyes and then throwing an arm over his face, and somehow drags himself down into sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

“You know what my biggest flaw is?” Poppy tells him conversationally, two days after Harry tells her about Ian’s plans to continue on with the shipment.

Harry isn’t entirely sure how to answer that. He’s just finished telling her that the Daring is officially off the list, but Ian is still debating between the other two. It’s all the information he has for her today, mostly because Ian is putting all his focus into this shipment, trying to get it out on time, so there’s not much else going on. Part of him is relieved. If Ian isn’t giving him any information, Harry can’t relay it to Poppy. Still, the end of the information is usually the end of the call, so he’s not sure why they’re still talking.

When he doesn’t reply to her question, Poppy takes his silence as a go-ahead to answer it herself. “Impatience,” she tells him. “I _hate_ waiting.”

Harry swallows hard. “I told you, I don’t have-”

“Oh, no, bunny, no,” Poppy says, as if Harry actually needs reassurance. “I’m not angry at you, I know you’re trying. It’s just... _ugh_ , it’s so boring, you know? _I_ can’t do anything until _he_ does something. There’s nothing I hate more than waiting around for a man.”

“He’s finalizing the deal tomorrow afternoon,” Harry tells her. “I promise, by tomorrow night I’ll be able to give you more information about what’s going to happen and when.” Already it feels too easy, betraying his partner like this. But every time he thinks about telling Poppy he’s not going to do it, he thinks about the photographs and what they’d do to everyone in his life. And nothing bad has happened yet. She hasn’t hurt anyone because of him, the information he’s giving. That’s cause to hope, to think he’s made the right choice.

“I know,” Poppy whines. “I know, I know, but I don’t _want_ it tomorrow. I want it now.” She laughs. “My daddy used to tell me I was a spoiled little princess. I wanted what I wanted when I wanted it and I wanted to have it first, before all the other little boys and girls. I don’t think there’s anything terribly wrong with that, do you? Knowing what you want?”

Harry doesn’t know if he’s supposed to answer.

It doesn’t matter, because Poppy continues herself, “That’s why I’m over here, you know. Left the good ol’ U. S. of A. to come to London because I like to be _very_ hands on and Jack had scampered over here, which meant Merlin was coming after him. I got on a boat the moment I knew the wizard had set sail. It’s no fun, doing everything over the phone, you know?” There’s a pause, and then she adds quickly, “But not this, bunny, I love our little chats. It’s kind of like girl-time, isn’t it?”

As if Harry actually cared about Poppy not liking phone calls over meeting with him in person. He knows which one he prefers. The other comment he’s not going to dignify with an answer. “Should you be telling me this?” he asks instead.

“Why not? It’s not like I’m telling you anything sensitive. And it’s not the same, chatting with my boys. Charlie’s the only one who likes to chat back, and having more than one conversation partner is good for the soul, don’t you think? I do love to make friends.”

Harry wouldn’t really know. Until recently, Roxy had been pretty much his only, or at least his most constant, conversation partner. Alistair isn’t especially talkative, and Harry doesn’t see him or James often enough to really count them, even if they are close. As for friends, he suspects that even he has more true friends than Poppy. He’s pretty sure most people prefer ‘somewhat awkward recluse’ over ‘moderately homicidal snake charmer.’ Or maybe that’s just him.

Poppy hums - Harry is quickly learning to hate that sound - and then says, “Tell me about the others.”

“What?” No, no this is the exact opposite of what he wants to do.

“You know,” she clarifies. “Merlin’s little minions. I’ve read their files, but it’s not the same as knowing them, you know? So. What are they like?”

 _Terrified of you_ , Harry thinks. At least, the ones who know about her are, and the ones who don’t seem to have a least a bit of a sense that _something_ dangerous is lurking. He thinks about Dotty with her black eye, cowering in her own home. “They’re ordinary people,” Harry says. He doesn’t want to tell her any more than she already knows about them. It’s easy to turn over a cargo ship. It’s much harder to turn over an actual human being.

He can hear the pout in her voice when she says, “I suppose if you’re not going to tell me, then I’ll just have to get off the line. It’s fine. I know when I’m not wanted.” She huffs. “You better have some good news for me tomorrow night, bunny, or I’m going to be very cross with you.” She sounds like she means it, an actual threat under the petulant words.

Harry doesn’t have time to gulp before the line goes dead.

He flops back on Ian’s bed. He’s hardly left this room except to go home and pick up the necessities - change of clothes, his pages, etc. - over the past two days. He hasn’t felt much like going out, and while the hotel may be under Poppy’s rule, the idea of her spying on his flat is even more unsettling.

He traces shapes on the comforter, too restless to keep still. Ian promised to be back by early evening with dinner, but it’s creeping towards six without a sign of him. Harry would call, but he has no idea where Ian is. He’s not worried yet, but he’s heading in that general direction, the buildup of nerves exacerbated by the phone call and Poppy’s threat.

It’s quarter to seven before Ian steps through the door with a brown paper bag and an apologetic smile. He kisses Harry’s cheek. “Sorry I’m late. Something unexpected came up.”

The hand holding the bag is blistered slightly around the knuckles. Harry takes the bag from Ian and sets it on the coffee table, then takes Ian’s wrist and lifts it up, running his thumb gently over the bruises. “You were in a fight.”

“Not exactly.” Ian pulls his hand away and sits on the sofa. Harry busies himself with unloading dinner; Ian’s brought two servings of fish and chips. Comfort food. Harry wonders which one of them Ian is trying to comfort.

“Then what?” Harry has an inkling of what happened, but he wants to see if Ian will deny it.

“Do you really want to know?”

Harry nods, but he doesn’t look at his partner.

“I found the man that attacked you.” Ian pauses, “Well, actually Tequila found him, but he called me. I was already on my way here, but I thought that was worth stopping for.”

“And you tortured him?” A tiny, horrifying bit of Harry feels a vicious jubilance at the thought, but most of him just feels horrified, not at Ian but at himself and the situation.

Ian flinches. “Christ, no, nothing that dramatic. I wanted to give him a warning, a _verbal_ warning, about what would happen if he so much as set foot in any of my establishments again, and…” Ian swallows audibly.

Harry looks at him. Ian appears genuinely distressed, his posture tight and the line of his jaw set. “And what?” Harry prompts gently, moving to the sofa to sit next to him properly.

“And he called you...he called you some names, called _us_ some names, and I lost my temper.” Ian sighs, dropping his head into his hands. “I hit him. Just...just once, but I did.”

Harry frowns. He reaches out and threads their fingers together. “Why is that such a big deal? I’ve wanted to hit a few people for far less.” He’s never done it, admittedly, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t wanted to.

Ian untangles their hands and pulls his back, and that concerns Harry more than anything else about this conversation. “I’ve wanted to, yes,” Ian says, “but I don’t. Not unless it’s necessary, not unless I feel I have no other choice. I’m not...I’m not the sort of person who just…” He takes a shuddering breath. “I know you don’t like thinking about me doing that sort of thing-”

“Ian,” Harry cuts him off. When Ian looks at him, he says, “There is a big difference between you torturing and killing someone and you punching a man who probably deserved it.”

“Violence doesn’t solve problems.”

“And you’re not a violent person.” This Harry believes completely. “I wouldn’t be with you if you were. Yes, I’m uncomfortable thinking about you...well, about the sort of thing you did to Jack, but I’m not upset by this.” He’s more upset at the idea that Poppy would throw her own people into the line of fire, not caring what happened to them, than the idea that Ian got a little rough with one for using a few slurs.

Ian accepts his hand when Harry reaches out for him again. “I’m overthinking everything, aren’t I?” Ian asks, a tiny, self-deprecating smile playing at his lips.

“A little bit,” Harry says. “But that’s alright. You have a lot on your plate right now. That sort of stress can make a man do crazy things.” He squeezes Ian’s hand and then lets go, nudging his food towards him. “We should eat. Before it gets cold.”

They eat in silence for a moment before Harry’s curiosity gets the better of him and he asks, “What happened to him? After you punched him, I mean.”

“Tequila pulled me away, made me calm down. I don’t...I don’t _think_ I would have hit him again, but honestly I’m not sure. After that, I told him I wouldn’t be so nice next time if I found out he was within a hundred feet of the club or you.”

Harry’s touched. “You aren’t afraid he’ll turn us in to the police?”

Ian shakes his head. “It’s his word against ours. Who are they going to believe, an angry drunk who got thrown out of a club, or a respected businessman and a writer from an upstanding family who’s just doing research for his novel?”

“Well, I’m not sure they’d believe me over him,” Harry points out. “What little reputation I have is mostly for eccentricity. You, they might believe.”

“It’ll be fine,” Ian promises. “I don’t want you to worry about it. If I thought there was a chance we’d be at risk, I wouldn’t have just let him go.”

“What would you have done? If he had, I don’t know, photographs or something. Proof.”

“I would make him tell me where the photographs were,” Ian says calmly. “And I would burn them all.”

Which is practical for a street thug, but less applicable when Poppy and her entire army stand between Ian and the photographs. Especially since Charlie could just take more.

Because they’re on the topic, so it really won’t look odd or even especially paranoid, Harry asks, “And what if this-” He gestures between them. “-ever got out? You know, publically.”

Ian frowns. “It’s not going to.”

“But if it did,” Harry presses. “We’re...mostly careful.” Except for shagging in an alleyway, Ian spending most of his free time with Harry, them sleeping at each other’s places, and the frequent association with known or rumoured homosexuals both in the sense of James and Alistair and of La Hirondelle. “But if someone were to find out and went public with it, what would happen?”

Ian leans back against the sofa and looks up at the ceiling. Dinner has mostly been forgotten. After awhile, he says, “We would be jailed. Probably not executed, they don’t usually hang people like us these days, but we’d almost certainly go to prison. Even if we could avoid that, my business would suffer. Some of my clients wouldn’t mind, but there are plenty who would refuse to work for a _queer_.” He says the word like Charlie says it, and Harry’s stomach turns. “People would be poking into our lives, so Olivia would probably be found out, and by extension Roxy. James and Alistair. A good chunk of my staff. The ones who aren’t queer would be tainted by association and out of work anyway. Your books would probably be pulled from the shelves, and your parents would get either a lot of hate or a lot of sympathy.”

Funnily enough, Harry doesn’t give a rat’s arse about that last thing. But the rest is enough to make him feel ill again. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs.

Ian pulls him close and kisses his cheek. “It’s not going to happen. We’re careful enough, and I’ve got a lot of friends in high places. So long as no one can _prove_ anything, they’ll turn a blind eye. Alright?”

Harry nods slowly. Ian gives him a little smile. “Times are changing, Harry. And what people don’t know won’t hurt them.”

If Harry was to tell Ian, now would be the time. They’re on the subject, and Harry’s hardly given Poppy anything. Ian would probably forgive him, maybe even be horrified and sympathetic on his behalf. It could be alright.

But Harry glances out the window and thinks of Charlie, lurking on the ledge and sneering in at them, camera poised and waiting. He leans into Ian and keeps silent.

Ian lets him finish dinner like that, although the fish and chips have gone almost completely cold. It doesn’t matter. They taste like ash in Harry’s mouth anyway.

Tomorrow is a big day. Tomorrow, Harry starts betraying Ian for real. No turning back now.


	24. Chapter 24

“Are you absolutely sure you want to stay here?” Ian asks. “You haven’t left this room in days.” There’s worry in his voice, a worry that has been growing the longer Harry stays in.

Harry waves him off. “Go to your meetings. I’ll probably pop out a little later, see how everyone’s doing, but I have a key, I can get back in. Don’t worry about me.”

“Not a chance,” Ian tells him, grinning. He pulls Harry in for a slow, lingering kiss, his fingers threading through Harry’s sleep-mussed curls. Against his lips, he murmurs, “I’ll see you here tonight?”

“Better yet,” Harry suggests, “I’ll meet you at La Hirondelle?”

Ian stiffens, and Harry cuts him off, “Whatever superstitious nonsense you’re about to use as an excuse, I don’t want to hear it. We don’t have to go out if you don’t want, but you have a point. I’ve been cooped up in this room long enough.”

“You’ve been ‘cooped up’ by choice,” Ian points out.

“Yes, and now I’m choosing to go out.” He trails his fingers down Ian’s arm and whispers, “I’ll wear the grey dress. You haven’t seen me in that one yet.”

“You play dirty, Harry Hart,” Ian chastises him playfully, hands curling around Harry’s hips and dragging him closer. He nips at Harry’s lips gently. “But you have yourself a deal.”

“What time do you think you’ll be out of your last meeting?”

“Impossible to say. No earlier than four. But go whenever you like. Tequila will take care of you.”

“I don’t need minding.”

Ian winks at him and draws back. “Who says he’ll be minding you?”

Harry catches the innuendo a second later and whips the nearest soft object - a fluffy pillow - at Ian’s head. Ian bats it away, laughing, and Harry admonishes, “Shameless.”

“You started it,” Ian teases.

Harry can’t help but smile. He reaches out and gets ahold of Ian’s tie, bringing him in for one last kiss. “Now go,” he says, shooing him away with his hands. “Before I drag you back here and the day is lost.”

“Not a very convincing argument,” Ian grins, but he blows Harry a kiss and walks backwards out of the bedroom.

The moment he’s gone, the smile drops from Harry’s face. This is it, he tells himself. The last day he gets to spend with Ian before he’s in too deep to love him without guilt. Well, without more guilt than usual - loving a man is still a work in progress. Damn it, but he wants to enjoy today. They’ll go dancing, and Harry will play as if everything is alright, he’ll kiss Ian and laugh with him, and then when the night is over he’ll stab him in the back.

It’s a sour image.

He spends a little longer in bed, but eventually he forces himself to get up and get dressed. He’ll need to stop by his flat at the very least, where his dress and accessories are tucked safely under the bed. And he does want to see Amelia briefly, and maybe stop in on James and Alistair. He might even stop by Kingsman, just because it’s been so long since he’s sat and had a proper pint there. A victory tour, he thinks it might be called. A last hurrah of sorts. The end of his morals. Perhaps he’s being a touch dramatic, but everything feels a touch dramatic these days.

His flat looks the same as ever. The curtains are still drawn, giving the air a heavy feel. Harry sets the pages he’s been working on - poor Hamish will be lucky if he finds out he’s to be a father by the end of the novel - on his desk with the others and then goes into his bedroom. His bed has started to look oddly empty without Ian in it, but Harry pushes that thought away, changing into a comfortable jumper and a fresh pair of trousers. He digs the correct package out from under the bed and sets it on the mattress, ready to go when he needs it tonight.

Suddenly the room feels too small, and Harry strides over to the window and throws the curtains wide open, mentally flipping off Charlie or any of Poppy’s other photographers who might happen to be around. The dust in the air swirls and dances, illuminated by the sudden rush of sunlight. Harry bats it ineffectively out of his face and coughs lightly, then opens the window for good measure.

He debates the practicality of leaving it open without him in the flat, but it’s not like he has much worth stealing. His butterflies are, admittedly, very valuable, but they’re also not the sort of thing the average burglar would think to take. He doesn’t have enough fans to fear someone stealing his manuscript, although he’s not sure the butterfly paperweight is enough to keep them from blowing about the room, should the wind pick up, and so he tucks those into the desk. And, of course, Poppy’s made it abundantly clear that she’s not unskilled at breaking and entering - or at least having others break and enter for her - so should she have any interest in any of Harry’s belongings she could get to them regardless of the window being open or not. So he leaves it open to air out the room while he steps out again and makes his way to James and Alistair’s flat.

The door, as it often is, is unlocked. “Alistair isn’t home!” James’s voice calls from his studio. “If you’re looking for him, you’ll have to wait or come back later.”

Harry steps into the open doorway and watches James frantic movements, skittering between his canvas and where he keeps his painting supplies. “Where’s the fire?” Harry teases.

James looks up at him, wild-eyed and grinning. “ _Exactly_ ,” he says, and Harry blinks. He recognizes that as what James calls his ‘inspired’ voice.

He peers at what James is mixing up. It’s a burning red that doesn’t match the muted tones already serving as a background on his canvas. “I had the most brilliant idea. I was thinking about how odd it was, all those saying about ‘getting on like a house on fire’ and ‘burning passion,’ that sort of thing, about these powerful feelings being so destructive, and I just…” He trails off and jabs at the canvas with his hands. Harry notices a fleck of the red paint splash against the dark blue-black. If he squints, the loose shapes compose themselves into a rough outline of a bedroom set. In dark grey, two figures - more blob than person so far - twine together on the bed.

“One of these days,” Harry tells him, “someone is going to accuse you of painting pornography.”

James grins cheekily at him. “If they were to accuse me of that, they’d have to have seen some of my sketches. And only Alistair gets to see those.”

“Mostly because I pose for half of them,” Alistair comments dryly, and Harry startles. He’ll never really get used to how silently Alistair can move when he wants. “Your paintings are tasteful compared to those.” He moves in to greet James with a kiss, but James doesn’t sit passively like normal, instead leaping from his seat and seizing Alistair's face between his hands, kissing him fiercely.

“Mon amour,” James moans between kisses. “My muse, the fire in my soul, the blinding light of inspiration in my life, holder of my heart-”

Harry coughs, and James pauses, then slowly separates from Alistair. He doesn't blush, but Alistair does.

“Nice to see James riled up over his artwork again,” Harry says, only a hint of a tease in his voice. “But if perhaps you could leave the ‘burning passion’ until after I’ve left, that would be appreciated.”

There’s a smear of red paint across Alistair’s cheek. It blends in very well with the flush spreading across his face. “I thought you weren’t coming home until later,” James tells him.

“I got off early,” Alistair says. “It was supposed to be a surprise. For your birthday.”

Harry blinks. What with everything going on, he’d half forgotten James’s birthday was this weekend. “Long weekend?” he asks. “The party’s still tomorrow, isn’t it?”

James nods. “And you’d better still be coming. Ian too.”

“Yes, we’re still coming,” Harry promises. He’s not about to tell James he nearly forgot. He doesn’t want to kick off a dramatic rant, and fired up as James is today, he’d most certainly get one. “Who else is invited?”

“Roxy’s bringing Olivia, of course,” Alistair says. “I believe Amelia said she was stopping by as well. I think that’s it.”

James pouts. “It’s hardly a party but it’ll do.”

Alistair rolls his eyes fondly, and James grins and kisses his cheek, then goes back to work. Alistair addresses Harry, “So, what brings you to our flat today?”

“It’s just been awhile,” Harry says. “And after everything, I thought I’d look in on people.” It’s the truth, if a watered down version of it.

“After everything?” Alistair repeats.

It occurs to Harry he doesn’t know how much they know about what happened. He gives a little shrug, casual as he can manage. “There was an incident at the club.”

“An incident related to Ian’s business, or…?”

“The latter,” Harry lies. “It’s perfectly fine, all cleared up now, but it was a touch upsetting.”

“And when Harry gets upset, he goes back inside his cocoon,” James says cheerfully. He pauses, lighting up, “Now there’s an idea for a painting. Butterflies...”

Harry rather dreads the idea of James painting him as a pupating caterpillar. “Butterflies use crystalists, not cocoons,” he corrects. “And anyway, yes, I retreated a bit, but I’m fine now. Ian and I are going out tonight. I figured while I was going to be out anyway, I’d look in on people. See how everyone else was doing.”

“Well, James is...James,” Alistair says, eyeing his husband. “And I’m fine. And of course we’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it,” Harry says. “James’s theatrics are always entertaining, if nothing else.”

James is too busy to even shoot him a dirty look, and Alistair cracks a smile. “Give my best to Roxy if you see her before I do,” Harry says.

“We certainly will,” Alistair says, and Harry takes his leave of them. It’s nice, if nothing else, to see them being normal. It’s a reminder that not everyone will be hurt by what he’s doing.

His next stop is Miller’s. He doesn’t _really_ need a book from Amelia, but he figures he can acquire another play or something else by Wilde that Ian can read to him. Ian has a remarkably soothing reading voice. And it means Harry doesn’t have to look at him in the evenings or attempt conversation. Really, it’s ideal.

The bell rings cheerfully when he pushes the door open, and he’s so busy looking over to the counter where Amelia is sorting change that he crashes directly into the person exiting.

As hands steady him, he recognizes that laugh. “You know, generally when people describe falling for each other, they don’t mean it quite so literally.”

Harry looks up at Ian’s grinning face, then around the bookshop, separating himself from Ian swiftly when he realizes they aren’t the only patrons. Ian allows him to move away, and his voice was low, so Harry can’t fault him for his comment. It’s unlikely the other man in the shop heard.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks.

Ian pats his coat pocket. “Getting a present for James’s birthday. It’s tomorrow, isn’t it? And he was rather insistent on me bringing a present.”

“I can’t believe you remembered,” Harry admits. “I nearly forgot.”

“Well, don’t tell James,” Ian stage-whispers, as if the man in question might be lurking, “but I nearly did too. Olivia marked it down in my schedule, thankfully.”

“We’re still on for tonight, aren’t we?”

Ian nods. “I’ve got a bit more work to do. I have to run a few errands, stop by the club for a moment to drop something off, and of course the meetings to finalize the shipment, but then I’ll be able to put away business for strictly pleasure.” He leans close and asks in a murmur, “You’re still wearing the dress, aren’t you?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t tease you about that.”

“You wearing it is a bloody tease,” Ian mutters, but he smiles. “I do have to run, though. Like I said. Busy.”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight,” Ian agrees, and makes his exit.

“You haven’t told him, have you?” Amelia asks casually from the counter.

Harry shakes his head, leaning against it and lowering his voice, “It’s better this way.”

“As long as you believe that,” Amelia says, but she doesn’t sound entirely convinced. She pastes a bright smile on her face as the other man comes up with his stack of books, and Harry disappears into the stacks. He picks up a copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and considers it. He’s not entirely sure what it’s about, only that it was considered morally indecent and offensive by most of the early readers. He supposes it’s at least worth a read, and honestly, it doesn’t matter how bad the prose or subject, so long as Ian is the one reading it to him. He really can’t express enough how much he loves his partner’s voice.

The grin Amelia gives him when he buys it is telling. “Have you read it before?” she asks. “It’s...quite the experience.”

Harry shakes his head. “Well, you’re in for a very interesting cautionary tale,” Amelia tells him. “I’ll wrap it for you. Don’t want patrons knowing that their beloved Harry Hart reads such horrid trash.” She winks.

“You say that as if fans are lining up down the street for my next novel.” Harry takes the book, now covered in brown paper, from her. “At most, my readers might go from three to two.”

“You have more than three friends.”

“And how many of them have actually read my work?” Harry smiles. “I know how this game works, my dear.” He knows Roxy reads them, and Amelia, and now Ian as well, but he’s fairly confident that James and Alistair have never more than briefly skimmed through one of his novels, and Eggsy doesn’t have much time for reading.

She laughs. “Fair enough.”

He is grateful for the wrapping, though. His readership may be low, but if his editor got word of this, he’s not entirely sure his next book will see the light of day.

He doesn’t go home immediately. It’s still a little early, but Kingsman would have just opened its doors, and sure enough, when Harry gets there the sign is flipped to open. It’s mostly deserted, save for a few day-drinkers and Eggsy behind the bar. He grins at Harry. “Long time no see.”

“Yes, well, I have been cutting back on my drinking a bit.”

“You mean, when you drink, you do it at Merlin’s club,” Eggsy teases.

“Not you too.” Harry laughs. “Merlin? Really?”

“What? It’s pretty cool, far as nicknames go.”

“Better than Eggsy?”

“Oi. I like Eggsy.”

“I’m rather fond of you myself,” Harry says, and Eggsy cracks another grin. He slides Harry his martini, and Harry takes an appreciative sip.

“Just the one,” he says. “I really just intended to stop by briefly. How are you? We haven’t spoken since…”

“Since I told you I might be…” Eggsy clears his throat. “And then you got beat up in an alleyway.”

“It wasn’t that bad. Nothing really happened.” The lie doesn’t grate on him the same way now he’s told it so many times. It’s worn him down, slipping down his throat like bitter honey. “But you are alright?”

Eggsy nods. “I’ve been...thinking more. About it. Just...how do you know? If you’re like that, I mean.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Harry admits. “But the fact that you’re having the question at all is probably a good indication that there’s something going on, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy agrees. He slouches, folding his arms on the bar and resting his chin on them. “I just wish there was something that could tell me proper, you know? It ain’t like there’s a lot of information about this sort of stuff out there.”

“You could always ask Ian,” Harry suggests. “He knows a lot of people. He might know someone who can help you figure this out.”

Eggsy hesitates. “Not sure I want to talk to someone else though. I dunno. But thanks.”

“I’m always here if you need to talk.” He wonders if that will end up being a lie too. He finishes his martini and pays for it. “Feel free to stop by my flat anytime you like. If I’m not there, Roxy lives below me, she can show you where the key is.”

Eggsy cocks his head. “How do you know I’m not gonna rob you?”

Harry snorts. “First of all, I have very little you could pawn for any sort of value. Secondly, I think we’re well past the point of trust, don’t you?” That twists the dagger in deeper. He trusts Eggsy completely, but if Eggsy knew what Harry was doing, he really would have very little reason to trust Harry.

But Eggsy doesn’t know that, and he just laughs. “I’ll see you around, Harry. Might just take you up on that offer, too.”

Suddenly Harry hopes he doesn’t, at least not until the thing with Poppy has passed. If it passes. The last thing Eggsy needs while he’s figuring himself out is someone like Charlie lurking, taking photographs.

He bids Eggsy goodbye and, with a hole in his stomach, returns to his flat.

The window is still open, but nothing looks touched by more than a light breeze, and the air is clear and crisp. He closes it against the chill but leaves the curtains open, then replaces his papers on top of the desk and puts the wrapped book in the drawer instead. He has a plenty of time to get ready for the evening, but he feels restless already. He doesn’t want to wait, wants to slip into the lovely soft fabric of the dress and feel it swish against his thighs. There’s something soothing about it, and about the routine of dressing like that.

He strips efficiently, folding his clothes neatly and setting them on the foot of the bed before unwrapping the package and fetching the rest of the pieces that make up the ensemble. Underclothes go first, rolling sheer stockings up his legs, attaching them to the black garter belt. He runs his hands over them appreciatively, loving the way they make his legs smoother and silky. He forgoes knickers. Ian will love it, and it gives Harry a little thrill at the thought out going out in public without them. He hasn’t tried it yet, been too nervous to attempt it, but tonight he’s going all out. Last hurrah, and all that.

The makeup is next. Ian taught him that, putting it on and then letting it set before putting on the dress, to ensure it doesn’t spill or smudge over the fabric. He wings his eyeliner twice, removing it the first time in frustration. He can never make it as neat as Ian does. When he’s done up, the dress goes on. It falls high, but the fringe drapes lower, and he cards his fingers through it, loving the breezy way it dances around his knees. He scratches his hands briefly over the heavily sequined bodice, just to see how it feels - rough but sleek - and then goes to work at his hair.

He nearly stabs himself with a bobby pin when the phone rings, sending his heart crashing through his chest. It’s far too early for Poppy to call, but her words the night before blink back into Harry’s mind. Impatient.

Pulse thundering, Harry picks up the phone and says shakily, “Isn’t it a bit early?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, but when the American voice breaks through, it’s distinctly unfeminine. “Er, were you expecting a call?”

“Tequila,” Harry sighs. Then he adds quickly, “From my editor. Later. To discuss my book. Did you need something?” Lying has always been second nature to him, what with all the hiding, but he’s never hated that ease quite this much.

“D’you know where Merlin is?”

Harry frowns. “I can’t say I do. I saw him at Miller’s, but that was a while ago. He said he was going to drop something off at the club?”

“Did he?” Tequila asks. “First I’ve heard of it. Morgana’s called in sick. I’ve been trying to get ahold of him to ask about entertainment, but not even Olivia can find him.”

Panic sweeps through Harry’s body, but he forces himself to breathe. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he says lamely. “But just in case, I’ll be there shortly. If you haven’t heard from him by the time I arrive, then we can worry.”

Tequila laughs. “You sound a mite worried already. I’ll see you soon.” Harry doesn’t miss the note of concern under his cheerful demeanor.

His heart rate doesn’t start to slow until he hangs up the phone and takes a few deep breaths. Ian is fine. Poppy said she didn’t want to kill him. But that doesn’t mean she won’t hurt him, and Harry’s stomach does one of it’s familiar twists.

He hurries. His wig is a bit askew, his heels nearly trip him as the buckles dangle loose, and he fumbles with the clasp on his bracelet as he hurries out of his flat, just barely remembering to lock the door behind him. He hails a cab in a hurry, then fixes his shoes and sets about straightening himself out in the backseat. It will be fine, he tells himself. He’s worrying about Ian for nothing.

He comes dangerously close to breaking his ankle when he misses a step in his haste down the stairs to La Hirondelle, and then stops sharply when he gets the door open. It bangs shut behind him, but he hardly notices, his eyes wide as he takes in Tequila, pushed back against the bar by a much shorter woman whom Harry vaguely recognizes from photographs.

Apparently today is the day he watches other couples stick their tongues down each other’s throats. He sincerely hopes Olivia and Roxy break that pattern, because he really doesn’t need to see that from a woman he considers akin to being his younger sister.

He clears his throat, and they seperate. Tequila is flushed, but Ginger just smiles brightly at him. “Can we help you?” There’s an edge to her voice that Harry recognizes as being defensive.

Tequila coughs. “Baby, this is Harry.”

She brightens, and the edge is lost. “Merlin’s beau? You weren’t kidding, he is cute.”

“Thank you?” Harry ventures. He offers her his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She shakes her head. “Uh-uh. You’ve been with Merlin a month, that’s a record. You’re basically family, and in this family we hug.”

Harry accepts her hug, and she keeps it brief. He looks to Tequila. “Have you heard from Ian?”

“You just missed him,” Tequila nods. He grins down at Ginger. “He was bringing a surprise guest.”

She makes little jazz hands. “Ta-da!” She smoothes down her blouse, and adds, “I’m going to be singing tonight. Since Morgana is sick and all.”

“I didn’t even know she was coming.” The lovestruck smile seems permanently fixed to Tequila’s face. “They kept it a secret.”

She threads their fingers together. “Well, Merlin didn’t want anybody knowing I was leaving the states. Thought it’d keep me safer on the boat.”

“What about your family?” Harry asks.

“Champ’s looking after them. He’s kin, so he feels it’s as much his responsibility as mine. And I really didn’t want to be away from Tequila much longer, given that Poppy seems to have ramped things up over here.” Ginger shudders and clings to her partner a little tighter. “Someone’s gotta keep my man safe.”

Tequila kisses the top of her head. “And I feel safer already with you here. Now why don’t you skedaddle to the dressing room to change?”

“What, you don’t like the pants?” she teases.

“I like you in everything,” Tequila shoots back, “but I know you’ve got a dress for the night tucked back there, and you know I love you in purple.”

Ginger pats his cheek and stretches up to kiss him briefly. “Alright then. Harry, you want to help me with my makeup?”

“Honestly, you’ll probably do better without me. I’m still getting the hang of it myself. I’ll help Tequila out here.”

“Alright,” Ginger says cheerfully. “I’ll see you boys in a little while. Don’t have too much fun without me!”

“No promises!” Tequila calls playfully as she closes the dressing room door behind her. He grins over at Harry. “She’s great, right? I missed her so much.”

“I can tell,” Harry says, caught between amused and fond. Then he feels bad for not being more concerned. Ginger is putting herself in harm’s way by being here. He shouldn’t feel so happy about it.

Tequila throws a rag at him and he catches it instinctively. “You said you were going to help.”

Harry flicks it playfully at him, but he’s too far away to even touch him. As he sets to work helping Tequila open, he asks, “So are you going to get married over here?”

“Slow your roll, there,” Tequila says. “We ain’t even engaged yet. We got a lotta talking to do before we actually do it, and she just got here.” But he looks towards the closed dressing room door and sighs happily. “I’d really like to, though. If she wanted.”

“It’s obvious she loves you,” Harry tells him. “I can’t imagine she’d say no.”

Tequila laughs. “If you think I’m the one asking her, you don’t know Ginger.”

“To be fair, I only just met her today.”

“True,” Tequila agrees. “But she likes you. She don’t usually warm to people that easily.”

Which, of course, just makes Harry feel guiltier. He’s cut off from saying anything else as the dressing room door opens and Ginger steps through, hands on her hips. “Well? What do you think?”

“Gorgeous,” Tequila praises instantly.

The dress is purple and floor length, with light fringe around the sleeves and a high neckline. Harry is grateful to see he’s not the only one who takes issue with gloves, because she has matching purple ones and keeps fidgeting with them, rolling them further up over her elbow every time they bunch a little. She has a pretty silver scarf wrapped around her neck to match her headband, and the feather is purple as well.

“You look very beautiful,” Harry tells her. “Far better than I’d look.”

“It’s not your colour,” Ginger teases him, striding over and taking a seat at the bar. “The one you’re wearing suits you, though. Did Merlin pick it out?”

“Olivia.”

Ginger nods. “She has an eye for colour.” She taps the wood. “Bartender, what’ll it cost me to get a drink around here?”

Tequila sets a glass in front of her almost instantly. “For you, a kiss,” he says, and Harry is surprised that he sounds almost bashful.

Ginger grins and pecks him lightly on the lips. “Thank you, baby.”

Harry lingers by the bar even as the club starts to open. Ginger takes her place at the microphone and the band - who Tequila had thoroughly vetted and, as he told Harry once they were out of earshot, had gotten even more thorough background checks from Ian and Olivia - eases into the first song. Ginger’s voice is richer than Morgana’s, hauntingly beautiful, and Harry doesn’t blame Tequila for watching her, transfixed. He’s captivated himself, so he hardly notices a pair of arms encircling his waist and a pair of lips pressing a row of kisses along his neck.

“I see you’ve met Ginger,” Ian murmurs, and Harry turns in his seat, parting his knees so Ian can step between them and tilt his jaw up for a proper kiss.

“Why didn’t you mention she was coming?”

“I didn’t tell anyone. Just Champ and her family. I thought that would minimize the risk to her. You’re not angry, are you?”

“Of course not. If you didn’t even tell her partner, I can’t exactly be upset about you not telling me.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence that confuses him, the briefest flash of something he can’t identify across Ian’s face, but then it disappears and Ian says smoothly, “Honestly, she’s only here because she insisted she be with Tequila. Lucky timing though, what with Morgana getting sick.” Harry hears the twist in his voice clearly, but he doesn’t ask. He has a sinking suspicion he knows what Morgana’s illness is.

Ian must catch the reaction on his face, because he adds, “Don’t worry about it. Come on, stand up. Let me look at you properly.”

Harry does so, going as far as to give a little twirl so the fringe flies out around his thighs. Ian makes a sound of appreciation. “Gorgeous. Absolutely stunning.”

Harry takes his hand. “Let’s dance. I could use another tango lesson.”

“I’m not sure the music is appropriate for that,” Ian tells him, but he leads Harry out onto the dance floor and guides him into position anyway. It’s not like they’ve had a problem dancing to the wrong beat before.

“How did the meetings go?” Harry asks softly.

“Later,” Ian promises. He pulls Harry a little closer. “Right now I have an absolutely beautiful man in my arms and I’d like to appreciate him for a bit.”

The words are accompanied by one of Ian’s hands shifting playfully lower, dragging through the fringe, and Harry drags it back up to where it belongs. “Later,” he whispers into Ian’s ear.

“Tease,” Ian whispers back.

“If you think that’s a tease,” Harry nips at his earlobe, “wait until you hear what I’m wearing underneath.”

“Oh?”

Harry switches sides and bites a little harder. “Nothing.”

He thinks Ian’s knees might actually buckle a little, and he grins. Ian growls and hitches Harry’s leg up around his waist in a move that is definitely more advanced than Harry’s miniscule skill level, pressing him even closer as he dips Harry down towards the floor, a subtle tease of his hips that makes Harry pant and debate giving in right here.

Ian pulls him upright again and murmurs, “Two can play at that game, love, so don’t test me.”

Harry can’t help but grin, especially because Ginger gives him a look over Ian’s shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Where’s Olivia?” he asks Ian to distract himself. “Doesn’t she usually come when you do?”

Ian blinks, and looks around, turning Harry sharply. Only Ian’s grip on him allows Harry to keep his balance. “She should have been here by now.” There’s concern in Ian’s voice, the same sort of concern that Tequila had expressed earlier. The same sort of fear that had clutched at Harry’s chest, and now resurfaces.

“I’m sure she’s just late,” he tries to reassure Ian, but it sounds half-hearted even to his own ears.

As if on cue, Tequila approaches and taps Ian on the shoulder. “Phone call for you, boss. It’s Olivia.” Ian releases Harry and follows Tequila to the phone. Harry trails after, clinging to Ian as he answers the call, trying to listen in. Ian lets him.

“Olivia?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

Her voice is muffled to Harry, but the words are clear enough: “It’s Amelia. She phoned Roxy and…” There’s a horrible pause, and then Olivia says, “Someone came into her shop after hours. It’s...Merlin…”

“I’m on my way,” Ian says without hesitation. He hangs up, and looks at Harry. “Stay here.”

“No.”

Ian blinks. “Harry-”

“Amelia is my friend too,” he insists. “Whatever happened, I’m not going to sit on the sidelines while you go off and…” He doesn’t know how he’s going to finish that sentence, but fortunately he doesn’t have to. Ian nods.

“Alright. Let’s go.” He shoots Ginger a cryptic look, and she nods, but before Harry can think to ask, he’s being whisked out the door and into a taxi.

 _Maybe Ian’s right_ , he thinks nonsensically _. Maybe this place_ is _cursed._


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major warning: this is the beginning of the intense angst and violence. It will continue on into next chapter as well (but I won't mention specifics because spoilers).

Amelia’s shop looks like a tornado - or, probably more accurately, a torpedo - ripped through it. The shelves are toppled, books spilling out across the floor like carpeting. The front window is broken, the glass scattered in a little fan with a large rock not far from it. The flower and old book smell is gone, replaced with the smell of still-smouldering embers from a tiny fire that got started in one of the corners and that, thankfully, appears to have been put out quickly. Amelia is sitting in the far corner, hugging her knees and trying to breath, with Roxy’s arm wrapped around her, stroking her shoulder and trying to calm her down. Olivia stands next to them. Her face is grim.

The cheerful ringing of the bell feels completely out of place.

“What happened?” Ian asks, taking in the carnage. Harry can’t speak, his voice stuck in his throat.

“Someone threw a rock through the window,” Olivia says. “Amelia says there were three, maybe four of them. They came in, started pushing at the shelves, knocking things about. She hid behind the desk. They left when the lamp shorted, so she was able to put out the fire before it spread too far.”

“Did they hurt her?”

Olivia shakes her head. “She’s alright. Just badly shaken. I don’t think they intended to hurt her, just to frighten her. ”

“It worked,” Roxy says. Amelia whimpers.

“Do we know who’s behind it?” Ian asks.

Olivia nods. “Poppy.”

“What?” Harry’s tongue loosens abruptly. “But Amelia’s not involved in that! It could have been anyone. Someone who doesn’t like that she sells certain books or someone bitter about the war or-”

Olivia hands him a note. “It was left on the counter by one of the men.”

_Compliments of Ian “Merlin” Grey_

Harry’s hands are shaking. Ian takes the note from him and reads it. He crumples it up in his fist. “This is my fault.”

“You came here, what, three times?” Olivia objects. “Merlin, this isn’t your fault!”

Ian shakes the note at her. “Please explain to me how this is not my fault! This literally has my name written all over it. It’s me Poppy is trying to hurt. And people like Amelia, like Morgana, like Dotty, they’re the ones paying the price.”

“Stop it.” The voice is Amelia’s, and everyone turns to look at her. Harry still feels too stunned to speak; he has no idea how Amelia is managing it. She gets shakily to her feet, leaning heavily on Roxy. “Stop yelling, stop fighting. It happened. I don’t care who’s to blame. I just want to go _home_.”

Ian takes a deep breath and nods. “Of course.” His voice is much calmer. He adds, “I’ll call some people, have them clean up your shop.”

“I don’t think you should be alone tonight,” Roxy says gently. “Why don’t you spend the night at my flat? Or I can come to yours.”

Amelia nods slowly. Roxy gives Ian a long look, exchanges a shorter one with Olivia, and then guides Amelia out of her devastated shop.

“Where’s the phone?” Ian asks Olivia.

She points to it, and although it looks a bit battered, it isn’t smashed to pieces. Ian goes to make a call. Harry approaches her. “What’s going on?” he asks. “I thought Ian had everything under control?”

Olivia looks at him. “He’s been trying,” she says softly. “But even he can’t control everything.” Her expression is haunting.

“Olivia, tell me,” Harry pleads.

Ian hangs up the phone and rejoins them. “They’ll be here shortly. Not the sort of mess they’re used to cleaning up, but they’ll do.” He sounds heavy, like the words themselves are dragging him to the ground. “We’ll wait until they get here. Olivia-”

“I’ll oversee them while they-”

“No.” Ian’s tone is firm, and Olivia looks shocked. He shakes his head. “I want you somewhere safe. Go after Roxy, or to James and Alistair’s. Somewhere you aren’t alone.”

“Merlin-”

“This is not up for debate,” he snaps. Harry has never heard Ian sound this harsh, especially not to his daughter. His voice softens, as if realizing that, and his next words are more desperate, “Please, Olivia. Please just do this for me.”

She hesitates a moment longer, and then nods. He sweeps her into a crushing hug and murmurs something Harry can’t make out into her ear. She hugs him back just as tightly, and when he lets go he presses a kiss to her forehead and pulls his knife out of his jacket pocket and hands it to her. She doesn’t say anything, just clutches the blade and walks out the door.

“Ian-”

Ian shakes his head, interrupting Harry, “Later.”

“You said that before.”

“And I meant it before.” Ian takes a deep breath. “Love, I promise I will tell you everything when we get somewhere safe, but for now, please leave it.”

“Everything?”

That look, the one Harry’s already seen twice tonight and doesn’t fully understand, flickers across Ian’s face again. “Everything,” he promises.

So Harry quiets and clings to Ian’s arm as they wait for the cleanup crew to arrive.

They get a dozen or so phone calls, redirects from Tequila of people calling the bar looking for Ian, and each one turns Ian’s face more ashen.

By the time they get back to Harry’s flat, it’s pushing ten. Ian locks the door behind them, then satisfies himself with doing the same to the windows while Harry changes out of his dress and into pyjamas. He sits on the bed, hand mirror by his side as he removes his makeup, and watches Ian.

He waits until Ian has reassured himself that Harry’s dingy flat is a fortress - including wedging the desk chair under the door handle - before he says, “It’s later. Ian, tell me what’s going on.”

“In all fairness,” Ian tells him, “this all happened today, so I have _not_ been keeping secrets.”

“Yes, fine.” Harry waves that off. “I don’t care about that. I want to know what happened.”

Ian sits next to him. He looks utterly defeated. “I told you everything had been getting worse,” he says softly. “People going missing, my shipments being messed up. Threats.”

“Yes.”

“But it was spread out. A little bit here, a little bit there.” Ian shudders. “And then, abruptly, everything happened at once.”

“What’s everything?” Harry asks. The guilt and dread gnawing at his stomach has consumed it and is moving on to his other internal organs.

“Champ called. Ginger’s brother was found beaten half to death. Same calling card as Amelia in his pocket.” Ian’s voice is thick, his brogue almost unintelligible. “Someone broke in and pinned half of Tristan’s butterflies to the wall.” A shot goes through Harry. “Eggsy says you went to Kingsman today? Just after you left, someone came in and started a fight. Half the bar is in shambles, Eggsy’s got a black eye, and Kay nearly had a heart attack. He’s in the hospital. And he’s not the only one.”

Harry didn’t think the pit in his stomach could get any bigger. “Who…?”

Ian sobs. Actually sobs. “She almost lost the baby. The doctor says she’ll be fine now, but when she first came in…” He chokes, and Harry hugs him close and hates himself.

“Shh,” he whispers. “Shh. It’s alright.”

Ian wrenches himself away, swinging to his feet and striding halfway across the room, like he has too much anguish in his body for it to be contained in one small space. “It’s not fucking alright! We sealed the deal today. Inverness. Not that I had a fucking choice because someone sunk the Mischief with half the fucking crew aboard. Two people died! That’s on me!”

“Ian-”

“That’s not all! Nearly everyone I work with or around has called me tonight with some horror story about something that happened to their staff or business. I’m half expecting Alistair to call telling me something’s happened to James!” Ian’s shouting, and Harry flinches at the volume, but he can’t begrudge Ian for it.

Ian collapses again, the fight gone, and Harry watches him fold to his knees in the middle of Harry’s bedroom. “What do I do?” he whispers. “How am I supposed to be everywhere at once?”

“You’re not,” Harry tells him. He holds out his hands. “Come here.”

Ian doesn’t move, so Harry joins him on the floor. “What happened wasn’t your fault,” he says.

“It happened because of me.”

“If you want to call it that, sure. But it still wasn’t your fault. It was Poppy’s.” And his, he thinks. He takes Ian’s hands and squeezes. “It wasn’t your fault,” he repeats. “It was hers.”

“What am I supposed to do now?” Ian asks him softly. His hands are shaking in Harry’s.

“Go to bed,” Harry tells him. Ian looks up at him, dumbfounded. “There isn’t anything you can do tonight,” Harry says. “You’re a mess, darling. That’s not what your people need. They need a leader, someone who might be scared but who’s prepared to take the reins and _take back control_. But you can’t do that. Not tonight. Not right now.” He cups Ian’s cheek. “Go to bed, darling. Sleep. There’s nothing more for you to do. It can wait until tomorrow.”

Slowly, Ian nods. He gets to his feet, not graceful for once, and shucks off his clothes down to his undergarments. Harry slides into bed and makes space for him, reaching over Ian and flicking the light off.

He doesn’t deserve to hold Ian, not tonight. But Ian clings to him, trembling, and Harry lets him. For Ian’s sake, he tells himself. Not because this might be the last night he gets to spend with the man he loves.

Sometime around one in the morning, the phone rings. Harry jolts awake, but Ian vaults to it first, presumably expecting more bad news. He stands in the doorway as he answers it. “Hello?”

There’s a very long pause, and then Ian frowns over at Harry in the dark. “She says she’s calling for your editor? Has sort of an Irish accent?”

“Must be a new secretary,” Harry says, but he doesn’t believe that. He knows who’s calling. He takes the phone from Ian. “Go back to sleep.”

“Bit late for an editor to be calling.”

“I’ve gotten calls at stranger hours,” Harry tells him. It hurts that that’s not even a lie. “Must be a writer thing. Go back to bed.”

Ian climbs back into bed and rolls over, his back to Harry, and Harry takes the phone as far away from the bedroom door as he can. “Hello?” he whispers.

The accent, as expected, is not Irish. “Hello, bunny.”

She sounds so sweet, so proud of herself, Harry just barely stops himself from reacting, because to react would probably involve him shouting, throwing the phone, or crying. Possibly a combination.

“Editor’s secretary, right? Not a bad story. And my family is Irish. Little bit, anyway.” She laughs. “Sorry about the late hour, though. I’ve been _so_ busy. Shame Merlin picked up, but you can cover, can’t you? Of course you can. And it won’t matter for much longer anyway.”

“Why did you do it?” Harry asks. He doesn’t dare speak in more than a whisper. He doesn’t know what will happen if Ian hears him.

“Oh, bunny, what did I tell you? Patience? Not my strong suit. And you? Ugh, the Vega thing was great, but this was going nowhere fast.”

“It’s been a week!” Harry hisses. “Not even that!”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Poppy groans. “It’s been _forever_. I was _bored_. So, I figured I’d have a little fun before I played my final card. Is he crying? Please tell me he is.”

Harry isn’t going to give her the satisfaction of an answer. “Final card?” he asks.

“Don’t be a dumb Dora, bunny. It’s really not attractive. The Inverness? It’s the last move. God, I just wish I could get Olivia involved somehow. She’s the real brains, I know, and it seems so unfair to give Merlin all the credit when I finally take apart everything he loves.”

“Don’t touch her,” Harry snarls.

“I’ve left her alone up until now! I mean, she’s damn hard to get to, but it’s not like I’ve been _trying_. Anyway, I know the Inverness is scheduled to leave tomorrow. You don’t have to tell me that.” She laughs again. “I didn’t give him much of a choice.”

“Why leave that? And if you’re going to tear him down all at once, why not just send those photos to the police?”

She tisks. “I thought you were getting smarter, bunny. I haven’t torn _everything_ down, not yet. Nothing like one last card to make a bluffing man desperate. Is that a good metaphor? I’m terrible at poker. As for the photographs, well, don’t worry about those. Besides, sending them to the police is boring. Why let a bunch of boring old men get the credit for my work? Because this is work, damn it, I’ve put a lot of effort into this, and I deserve to reap the rewards _myself_.” Harry is almost shocked at the insistent, almost wild tone. She calms. “So don’t worry about the photos, bunny. And don’t worry about Charlie anymore. We’re good. Last call. You took too long.”

He didn’t do much to begin with, but he’s starting to think that doesn’t matter. He’s not dealing with an ordinary person, after all. He’s dealing with a businesswoman. Maximum production, minimum time.

“So what happens to me now?” he asks softly.

“Well, I imagine sooner or later your darling Merlin is going to find out what you’ve done,” Poppy says. “Well, sooner or not at all. We’ll see how tomorrow turns out. Either way, I have a feeling your relationship is barreling towards the end of the road. Sorry, bunny. Better luck next time. Ciao!”

And the line goes dead.

Harry stares at the phone, then goes crawling back to bed. If Ian’s still awake, he doesn’t stir, and Harry tucks himself under Ian’s arm and resolutely refuses to cry.


	26. Chapter 26

Things are supposed to look better in the morning. That's the general rule. That's the half-truth you tell yourself to avoid staying up all night stressing and crying over things you can't control. It's supposed to bring clarity.

It’s a horrid lie.

Harry wakes up and immediately feels the punch in the gut of last night’s series of phone calls. Of Ian’s desperation and Amelia’s pain and Poppy’s gloating. It hits him all at once, all over again, and makes him clutch at his stomach in an attempt to push back the nausea.

Ian isn’t next to him, but when Harry turns over to face his side of the bed, the other man comes back into the room, sliding back under the covers with him. His eyes are grey and dull in the dim light, and he looks exhausted, although not nearly as much so as last night. “Harry?”

“I’m awake.”

“What did your editor call about last night?”

It’s not the question Harry was expecting. He blinks, then shakes his head. “Just deadlines,” Harry tries to reassure him. “Don’t worry about it. There are far more important things to worry about today.”

Ian sits up again, nudging Harry to do the same. “James’s birthday.”

“What?” Another punch of memory. “Ian, I really think that’s the last thing-”

“We made a promise,” Ian insists. “I made some phone calls this morning. Damage control. I’ll deal with everything this afternoon, but first we are stopping at James and Alistair's.”

“They’d understand a phone call-”

“We’re going.”

Harry isn’t sure he likes this version of Ian, snappish and bossy and quite frankly not making much sense. But he gets out of bed anyway, pulling on a respectable jumper and trousers. Ian is already dressed, suit as pristine as ever and pitch black. He looks more prepared for a funeral than a birthday party.

“You do realize,” Harry asks him, “that’s it’s still very early?”

“No, it’s not. I let you sleep in. It’s almost noon.”

“What?” Harry has a feeling he’ll be asking that question a lot today. “Why?”

Ian ignores him, save to throw Harry’s coat at him in a move that makes Harry’s stomach twist for a reason he can’t yet put his finger on. Ian moves the chair away from the door and unlocks it, pausing to look back at Harry. “Are you coming?”

Harry blinks, and then follows.

Ian is silent on the way to James and Alistair’s flat, and each second prickles deeply under Harry’s skin. Ian has to knock at the door; for once, it’s locked.

It takes Alistair a moment to answer, his hair mussed distinctively. “Ian? Harry? What are you doing here? We weren’t expecting you for another hour.”

“Is Olivia here?” Ian asks.

Alistair looks even more confused. “Why would Olivia-?”

“Because she’s not answering anywhere else,” Ian snaps, “and this is the last place I told her to go.”

Alistair doesn’t respond, just opens the door and lets them in. James pokes his head out of the bedroom, yelps, and then disappears back inside. He resurfaces a moment later with trousers on. “Did we lose track of time? Because I was fairly certain-”

“We’re early,” Ian says. “You weren’t answering your phone. Have you heard from Roxy or Amelia?”

Alistair shakes his head. “Not since last night. Is Olivia not with them?”

“I called. Roxy says she hasn’t spoken to Olivia since they left Miller’s. Did she tell you what happened?”

“Just that there’d been a sort of scuffle,” James says. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is definitely not alright,” Ian growls. He paces back and forth across the kitchen floor.

“You did tell her to get to safety,” Harry points out. “Maybe she’s just lying low? Waiting for the storm to pass?”

“I’ve never not been able to contact her before,” Ian snaps. “She’s always left some line open for me. Always.”

“Ian, what’s going on?” Alistair asks calmly.

Ian explains Poppy in a few brief sentences. “Last night she hit _everything_ ,” Ian snarls. “And now I can’t find Olivia.” He looks briefly at Harry, his eyes glaring holes into his skull, and Harry takes a step back without realizing it. He advances on Harry, then turns sharply on his heel, gritting his teeth hard enough that his jaw visibly flexes. “I told Roxy to bring Amelia here. Safety in numbers. They should be here soon.”

“You really think we’re in danger?” James asks.

“Last night, I thought everything was over,” Ian says darkly. “I woke up this morning and my daughter was missing. There’s something I don’t know, some last piece of the puzzle.” He looks directly at Harry again. “Any ideas?”

Harry opens his mouth. He has to tell Ian. “I really meant to-”

He’s interrupted by the door crashing open and Roxy barreling through. She launches herself at Alistair, then at James, hugging them tightly. “I was so worried. Did anything happen? Are you alright?”

“We’re fine,” Alistair tells her. “We seem to have been spared from...whatever this was.”

She lets go reluctantly. Behind her, Amelia enters and shuts the door. “You still haven’t found her?” she asks Ian.

He shakes his head. His gaze is no less intense, but at least he’s turned it away from Harry, and his voice is calmer again, if shaking, “No. No, I haven’t.”

There’s a knock at the door, and everyone jumps, Amelia in particular. Ian glances around the room, and then opens it, and Ginger walks past him into the flat, flanked by Tequila. She throws a folder down on the counter. “You were right, Merlin.” She glances at Harry, then back to her boss and adds, “And you’re _really_ not going to like this.”

Harry recognizes that folder. “How did you-”

“Tell me,” Ian interrupts him.

“Poppy’s lair was mostly unguarded. It looks like she’s abandoned it. She’s making her final play.”

“ _Mostly_ unguarded?”

Ginger nods. “One of the boys was very kind to tell me where I might find his boss’s office. I didn’t even need to start pulling teeth, although I did break a nail.” She examines her own pristine fingernails, and then looks back up at Ian. “Found that folder. And some other things you’re going to want to look at later. But for now?” She pulls a sheet of paper out of her jacket pocket and hands it over.

“Inverness. Three o’clock,” Ian reads.

“Her final play,” Harry says, quite without meaning to.

All eyes turn to him, and he swallows hard. He looks at Ian, and it hurts to meet his eye, “I was trying to tell you a moment ago. I might have…”

“Been spying for the other side?” Ginger says. “We know.”

Harry blinks. “What?” Of course, it makes Ian’s cold treatment of him this morning make more sense, explains the feeling of off-ness dogging Harry’s stomach. “How?”

“Not many people knew about the Vega,” Ian says bitterly. He can’t look at Harry, or won’t. “And at least where this is concerned, you’re a horrible liar.”

“Ian was already bringing me over to help him find the mole,” Ginger says. “He was pretty sure Jack wasn’t the only one involved. Although, from everything I found, it looks an awful lot like he did it all himself. Before _you_ came along.” He voice is icy, a sharp contrast from the day before. Tequila has been silent the whole time, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

“What you found?” Harry asks. “I thought you were a singer?”

“I am when I want to be,” Ginger says. She glances around the room, then at Ian, who nods. “But I wasn’t just Champ’s secretary in the army. There’s an awful lot you can learn when people think you can’t understand. It’s the only time prejudice ever works in my favour.”

“That’s the last secret, Harry,” Ian says, and the bitterness is still in his voice, but there’s something else too, something deeper and sadder. “I told you I wouldn’t lie or keep things from you, and this is the last one. A fairly useless secret in the end, but still. What’s having my own spy worth when Poppy got her man to stab me in the back before Ginger could do a thing to find him?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Harry protests. “Ian, please believe me-”

“Where is Olivia?” Ian cuts him off. He brandishes the paper in Harry’s face. “Is she on this ship?”

“I don’t know!” All eyes in the room are on him, with varying levels of disgust and shock and horror in them. “Poppy just said that the Inverness was her final card, and something about wanting Olivia to be involved. But that’s all I know, I swear!”

Ian looks at him, and there is not a trace of warmth left in his eyes. “I believe you,” he says. “You can’t lie for shit.” He holds out his hand towards Ginger, and she pulls out a pistol and sets it in his palm. He tucks it into his waistband. “I’m going to get my daughter back.”

Tequila and Ginger flank him as he moves towards the door, and Harry takes a few steps to follow. Ian stops, and before Harry can blink Tequila turns on his heel and presses his own revolver into Harry’s chest. “Where do you think you’re going?” There’s more anger in his voice that Harry’s ever heard. It doesn’t suit him at all.

“I’m coming with you,” Harry says with more courage than he actually feels.

“Like hell you are.”

“This is my fault,” Harry insists. He looks at Ian, whose back is still to him, and pleads, “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. But it’s still my fault, and I’m not going to let Olivia suffer because of me.”

Ian turns to look at him, and by some small miracle, Harry thinks Ian believes him. “You don’t like guns,” he says flatly.

Harry lifts his chin, seeing his opening. “Neither do you,” he counters.

There’s a heartbeat, and Tequila and Ginger both look at Ian expectantly. He deliberates for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then nods to Tequila, who lowers his revolver and hands Harry a knife. Harry looks down at it, and Ian says coldly, “For your sake, I hope you’re not lying about wanting to help, because any one of us can and will shoot you dead before you get a chance to literally stab us in the back.”

Harry nods in understanding, and moves to fall into step behind them.

“Wait!” Roxy protests. “I want to come too!”

“Absolutely not,” Ian tells her.

Roxy draws herself up to full height. “You’re letting Harry go!”

“This is Harry’s mess, and he’s going to help me clean it up,” Ian says. His voice gentles, “Roxy, Olivia wouldn’t want you here for this. Stay with Amelia and your uncles. For her sake.”

“I love her,” Roxy says, but her voice loses some of its power. “I-”

“I know. And that’s why I need you to stay.”

Roxy nods, and then Ian jerks his head to the rest of them. “Time to go.”

Harry follows the other three. He doesn’t dare look over his shoulder. He doesn’t want to see the expressions on his family’s face.

If they hurry, they’ll make it to the docks on time.

The ride is silent, icy - and not just because the weather has finally started taking the turn from chilly to downright cold. Harry keeps his eyes fixed on his knees, holding on as the cab driver speeds, hastened by Ian’s harsh tone and the exorbitant amount of money he’d slapped into the driver’s palm when they climbed into the cab. He can feel Ginger and Tequila watching him distrustfully, but Ian isn’t looking at him, is staring pointedly out the window, and Harry doesn’t know which one hurts more.

The wind off the water makes everything colder as they climb out of the car, bringing with it something that the writer part of Harry’s brain wants to describe as death. Realistically, it’s probably seaweed and day-old fish. He hates the docks, and this experience is not changing that opinion.

He clutches the knife in his hand, the blade unwieldy and awkward in his inexperienced grip, and he hurries to keep up with Ian and co. The docks are no less busy than they usually are in early afternoon, but while no one calls particular attention to their little group, they also instinctively move out of the way as Ian strides along the pier.

The Inverness is a moderate size for a cargo ship, but it’s still very large, and Harry has to  
crane his neck up to see the deck. A head of red hair, dancing like flames in the wind, leans over the side and calls down to them, “Come on up! We’ve been waiting for you!”

Ian glances back at Tequila and Ginger, and then pulls out his gun. They make their way up the gangplank.

Harry can say with complete honesty that he’s never been on a boat before, and the gentle bobbing makes his footsteps unsteady. He clings to the railing with his free hand and prays he can get himself together before they reach the deck.

He does, barely. He’s not quite sure where he’s supposed to stand, so he hovers somewhere over Ginger’s left shoulder so he’s not hidden behind Ian. To Ian’s right, Tequila  
cocks his revolver.

Ginger is standing proudly just under the foremast, a captain’s hat cocked jauntily on her head. She puts one hand on her hip. “You kept me waiting.”

Ian lifts his gun and aims it at her. “Where is Olivia?”

Poppy pouts. “What is it with you people? Is there never any time for small talk?” She grins and wiggles her fingers at Harry. “Hi, bunny. Can’t say I expected to see you here. Thought he’d have dumped you by now.”

Ian adjusts his grip and takes a step forward, and Poppy raises a hand in surrender and tuts. “And I thought I was impatient. I expected you to send someone to my place _hours_ ago, although I must say, I wasn’t expecting your pretty little spy.” She smiles at Ginger. “I could use a half a dozen good girls like you, honey.”

Ginger gives a disbelieving laugh and raises and cocks her own gun. “You really aren’t in a position to be chatting. Now answer his question. Where’s Olivia?”

“Oh, but I really am in a position to be chatting,” Poppy says brightly. She waves towards the dock, and Harry glances back but doesn’t see anything. “See, I’ve got a lovely boy out there with a sniper rifle and very good aim.”

“So shoot me,” Ian snarls. He takes another step forward. “Where is she?”

Poppy tisks again. “If I wanted to shoot you, don’t you think I would have done it by now? It’s no fun to end things prematurely, don’t you think?” She whistles, and a pair of her thugs wrestle a third figure up onto deck. Olivia is thrashing against their grip, and when they set her down, she spits at Poppy. Poppy flicks away the saliva and points a finger at Olivia. “The sniper is for her, Merlin. Do keep up.”

“Olivia.” Ian doesn’t quite sigh in relief, but he seems somehow stronger for seeing his daughter. The look that passes between them, equal parts desperate and determined, makes Harry’s heart clench.

“Let her go,” Ian says in a low voice. He lowers his gun. “Let her go, and I’ll let you do whatever you want with me.”

“No!” Olivia protests instantly, fighting against her captors again. They hold her tight. Tequila and Ginger both tense, but they say nothing, and they don’t lower their weapons.

Poppy shakes her head. “You don’t get to call the shots here, Merlin. Which one of us is wearing the captain’s hat?” She points to her own head and smiles with too-perfectly white teeth. “That’s right, it’s me.”

“What do you want from me?” Ian growls. “You’ve taken everything else.”

“Have I?” Poppy taps her chin. “Well, I certainly made a bit of a mess last night. I’m sure that will be just awful for your reputation. Beware the wizard. Anyone who works with ‘Merlin’ Grey goes up in smoke. Poof!” She mimes a small explosion. “But I’m sure you could rebuild. Maybe. If you could prove everyone would be safe again. If you brought them my head on a stake.”

Ian stops advancing. In fact, he takes a step back, putting Harry in line with Ginger, who moves with him. Poppy’s grin widens. “Are you going to do that, Merlin? You could, you know. He’ll only shoot her.” She gestures to Olivia. “You could kill me right now, and this would all be over. Wouldn’t it be worth it?”

“No,” Ian says. He shakes his head firmly. “No. You’re not going to kill her. I’m not going to let you.”

“See, that’s what I thought.” Poppy sighs. She looks at Harry. “It’s a shame, isn’t it, bunny? Our wizard’s loyalty runs deep. It must make your betrayal all the sweeter.” Her eyes flick to Ian and then back to Harry. “He knows, doesn’t he? That’s why you have that fun little knife instead of a gun like the big boys.” She pauses, “And girl, excuse me.” She smiles at Ginger, and then unfolds her other hand from behind her back and looks down at it, as if in surprise. “Better make that _girls_. Looks like I have one too! Isn’t that fun?” She beams at them.

There’s a heartbeat as everyone waits to see where she’s going to point it. Then, she lifts it neatly and aims at Harry. His heart stops.

“Loyalty is a funny thing, isn’t it?” Poppy tells Ian. “Love is even funnier. Here you go, you’ve got two choices. Your beloved daughter, who has never betrayed you, who has so much left to live for. Or your lover, who stabbed you in the back because I asked him to. Your pick.”

“What are you playing at?” Ian asks. “What do you get out of this?”

Poppy laughs. “I get to watch you squirm! I get to watch you _break_. And when you go crawling back, when you show everyone how much of a broken man you are, knowing you caused the death of someone you loved, then and only then am I going to take everything else, every little scrap you have left, and burn it to the ground.”

Harry can’t tell if his heart really has stopped, or if it’s thundering too fast to make out the individual beats. And plainly, without a fuss, he drops the knife to the deck. It clatters loudly, and everyone jerks to look at him. Even Poppy looks almost like she forgot he was there, an inanimate piece in her complicated game. Harry takes a calm step forward, putting himself ahead of Ginger and just about level with Ian. “Shoot me,” he says, and he’s proud that the words don’t shake.

“Harry-“

He looks at Ian, and god, it feels good to see that, to see the tiny glimmer of horror in Ian’s eyes. It’s enough to make him think that maybe, just maybe, Ian still cares about him, at least a little. “This is my fault,” Harry says simply. “I’m not going to let Olivia pay for that.” He manages a tiny smile, but he knows it comes out sad and twisted. “It started like this, didn’t it? I knew, somehow, being with you would kill me.” A laugh bubbles up in his throat, but it’s half a sob. “That’s some excellent foreshadowing there. Almost wish I’d written it myself.”

“No one is dying today,” Ian insists. He looks at Poppy. “We can work something out. I’ll shut down my business, whatever you want. Just nobody dies today.”

“Ooh.” Poppy wrinkles her nose. “Sorry. Somebody is definitely dying today. You’ve got three options.” She gestures with the gun.  “Option one: I shoot lover boy over here. Option two: I shoot you darling daughter. Or, option three: you realize this is all hopeless and that you’re going home a broken man no matter what, and you decide to use that gun against me like the bloodstained soldier we both know you really are, and pretty girl dies anyway.” She cups her hand around her mouth and stage-whispers, “I’d go with option one if I were you. Especially since he’s offering.”

“Ian,” Harry says. “Look at me.” He waits, but Ian doesn’t turn, just shakes his head and takes another step towards Poppy.

“You’re not going to hurt them,” he says, and his voice is low and dangerous. Harry knows that tone. “You want to see a soldier, Poppy? Is that really what you want?”

Her eyes brighten and, in her distraction, the hand holding her gun wavers, pointing down towards the deck. Ian smiles, or his lips twist into an approximation of one. “The thing about soldiers is, they fight as a unit.” And he lunges forward.

Harry doesn’t leap into the fray, but stumbles back, eyes wide, as a sudden flurry of motion erupts. Ian slams into Poppy, knocking her backwards, and Tequila shoots one of the thugs in the kneecap, loosening his hold on Olivia enough that she wrenches free of him, ducking just in time for a bullet from somewhere far away to lodge itself in the second thug’s chest. He goes down, and Olivia knocks out her other captor with a well-placed kick, ducking under Ginger’s arm as Ginger pulls her down behind a storage container, which promptly takes a series of bullets.

“Your sniper is only under orders to shoot Olivia, is that it?” Ian snarls, holding onto Poppy with a fistful of the front of her dress. “Your men are down, and she’ll be safe.”

Poppy laughs. “You’re stupider than I thought if you think those are the only men of mine on this ship.”

Ian hauls her to the side, and Harry takes another step back as she screams, Ian tipping her half off so she’s barely clinging to the rail, her captain hat ripped off by the wind to land somewhere in the water below, his grip on her the only thing keeping her from falling after it. “And how many of them do you think will follow your orders if you’re not around to send the paycheck?” Ian says. “Loyalty. You should look into it.”

She clutches at him desperately, her fingers curling around his forearm. “No, please! You wouldn’t! You wouldn’t shoot me before, you wouldn’t kill me now. Not like this.”

Harry can hear thundering in the distance, footsteps of the men below deck coming to aid their boss.

“Merlin,” Tequila warns. “I don’t have a whole lotta bullets left.”

The sniper must not either, because his shots have paused. Harry can just barely see Ginger, hovering over Olivia, her gun still drawn. Olivia has somehow managed to procure Harry’s knife – or possibly her own – in the scuffle, and she clutches at it, fury in her eyes.

Harry looks back at Ian, watches his eyes trace the same path Harry’s had, over Tequila and Ginger, his daughter, and finally to Harry. A sort of calm goes over him, and he releases her, stepping back as she shoves herself upright again, breathing hard.

“You’re right,” he says. “I wouldn’t kill you. Not like that.” He levels his gun at her. “But let us have safe passage off this ship, or I really will shoot you.” And Harry completely, with one-hundred-percent certainty, believes him.

Poppy must too, because she nods quickly. The first wave of her hired guns burst onto the deck and she holds out her hands. “Stop! Don’t shoot them!” There’s a pause as they contemplate her orders.

Ian takes a step back, and Tequila closes the gap between them, putting his back to Ian and guarding him. Ginger and Olivia stand up, both wary, and join the small circle. Harry stays where he is, frozen to the spot.

Poppy smiles. “Oh, you’re too good at this, Merlin. It really isn’t fair.”

“I’m not interested in fair,” Ian says. “Fair would be me killing you right now for everyone you’ve hurt. But I won’t. Because I’m not a monster like you.”

“We both know that isn’t entirely true,” Poppy says. She takes a step back, leaning against the railing casually. “This isn’t over, Merlin.”

“Yes,” he says. “It is.”

Poppy’s smile widens. “Come on,” she says. “We both know we didn’t get this far by playing fair. And I really was never very good about accepting it when I didn’t get what I wanted.” And with that, she raises her hand in the air and whistles.

Four things happen in too short a span for Harry to fully comprehend them.

First, Tequila manages to knock Ian to the deck just before the bullet strikes him. Second, Poppy’s thugs all brace themselves at the loud thud of bodies hitting the floor, looking around for the shooter, the sniper who had one last trick of Poppy’s up his sleeve. Third, there’s a loud shriek of pain from Poppy and a scream from Ian that sounds vaguely like the word “No!”

Fourth and hardest for Harry’s brain to wrap around is the second loud bang of a gunshot and the accompanying burst of pain, a sharp fall backwards and another duller pain, and then blackness.


	27. Chapter 27

When Harry wakes up, the first thing that occurs to him is that his right arm hurts. A lot. He looks down at it, splaying his fingers over the white bandage, and frowns. Then he sits up.

That is a mistake. His head immediately starts swimming, his vision blurring painfully, and he drops back onto the bed again and squeezes his eyes shut against the bursts of colour.

“Careful,” a familiar voice warns him. “Don’t want you moving too fast.” A pair of hands helps him slowly into a sitting position, and then Harry opens his eyes again. Tristan smiles kindly at him. “How are you feeling?”

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but it feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton, so all he does is make a vague, dry smacking sound. Tristan nods. “That seems about right.” He fetches a glass of water and helps Harry take a small sip using his left hand. “Ginger wasn’t too happy about helping me patch you up. She’s got all sorts of bright ideas, that one. Wouldn’t make a half-bad nurse if she didn’t seem so antagonized by the patient.”

Harry can’t blame her. And at least she did help. He looks down at his arm again. “Am I going to be alright?”

Tristan waves off his concern. “You’ll be fine. Bullet hardly grazed you. The deck of the ship did a lot more damage to your head. I don’t recommend trying to move around just yet.”

“How long was I out?”

“Just a few hours. Everyone else is outside waiting for you to wake up.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Ginger and her boy. Ian. Olivia. Last I heard, they’d called someone to come pick you up, but I didn’t catch who.”

“Is anyone else hurt?”

Tristan shakes his head. “Nothing more than a few bruises. That lot knows how to have a gunfight. You, I think, weren’t quite so prepared.”

He really wasn’t. He’d had noble intentions in going – or maybe he just needed to relieve his guilt – but he really had been in over his head. He’s lucky he didn’t die. “Thank you,” Harry tells Tristan. He gingerly gets to his feet, swaying slightly, and shuts his eyes again for a moment. Tristan watches him but doesn’t offer any help. Harry looks back at him and asks, “Where is Ian?”

“In the garden. But I wouldn’t recommend going to him just yet. He’s a bit ramped up at the moment, and the last thing you need is a shouting match.”

Harry doesn’t care. He needs to find Ian. He needs to explain.

Tristan follows him as Harry opens the door into the restaurant. It looks like he was in a storage room off the main building, so when he steps into the hallway he recognizes the layout, the door that leads to the kitchen and the twist that opens up into the dining area. Ginger and Tequila stand sentinel on either side of the door to the courtyard, arms folded over their chests, and despite the fact that Ginger is over half a foot shorter than Tequila, the glare on her face makes Harry far more afraid of her than the taller man. Tequila just eyes him with skepticism and a hint of hurt, while Ginger actually looks like she’s contemplating undoing her healing efforts.

“I want to see Ian,” Harry tells them.

Tequila shakes his head. “Bad idea. Very bad idea.”

“If you think we’re letting you anywhere near him-“

Harry cuts Ginger off. He feels exhausted. “I just offered to take a bullet instead of Olivia. I did, in fact, get shot. I know it doesn’t make up for my actions, but at the very least I’m not a threat. I just want to talk to him.” He looks beseechingly at them. “Please.”

They glance at each other, silent messages passing back and forth with barely a shift of expression. Finally, Ginger relents. “Alright. But don’t say we didn’t warn you.” They step aside, and Harry pushes open the door to Tristan’s butterfly sanctuary.

There aren’t nearly as many butterflies as the last time Harry was here, but beyond that there’s no sign of Poppy’s handiwork from the night before. Ian and Olivia are sitting on one of the benches, talking in low voices. Olivia catches sight of him first and tenses, and Ian looks up, his expression hardening when he see Harry. He murmurs something to Olivia and she stands, walking back along the path. When she passes Harry, she murmurs, “Good luck.”

It would be an odd sentiment if not for the fact that Ian is glaring daggers at him. Harry approaches slowly. He stops about ten feet from where Ian is sitting and realizes he doesn’t know what he wants to say.

“Why are you here?” Ian asks him softly. There’s a bite to his voice that Harry hates.

“I wanted to explain.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation. You offered your life in exchange for Olivia’s. As far as I’m concerned, we’re even.”

“What?” Harry shakes his head – a mistake, as it starts swimming again. “No, I don’t want to be even.”

“Then what do you want, Harry?” Ian stands up, and he looms in the space between them. “What more could you possibly want from me?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Harry says, although that’s not entirely the truth. He wants entirely too much from Ian, things he knows he doesn’t have a chance of getting anymore. “I just want a chance to explain,” is what he asks for. “Please.”

Ian looks at the ground. “Fine. By all means, explain. Explain to me how you could understand how important all of this is to me, and then turn around and allow her to hurt not just me, not just my business, but innocent people whose only crime was trying to earn a living when the best pay comes from those on the wrong side of the law. Explain to me how you could come into my life, into my bed, into my _heart_ , and then rip it all to shreds. Please explain it to me, Harry, because I really don’t understand.”

“It wasn’t like that.” He’s not trying to defend himself. That’s not why he needs Ian to know. “I did it because I loved you and because I was scared.”

Ian looks up at him. “Because you _loved me_? How the hell-“

“Did you look at the photographs?”

Ian pauses. “What photographs?”

“In the folder Ginger brought for you. Did you look at them?”

He shakes his head. “I hadn’t got the chance yet.”

“Poppy took pictures of us together. Or rather, she had Charlie take the pictures. Of us…” He breaks off and swallows hard, but he thinks Ian gets the idea without him having to say it. “She told me that if I didn’t help her, she would send them to the police.” He takes a step towards Ian, and his voice is a little more desperate when he says, “Do you see why I couldn’t let that happen? It wasn’t just me I was worried about! That sort of thing…you told me what it would do to your business, much less to the other people in my life who would suffer for it. Ian, I swear to you, I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“How long?” Ian asks. He still can’t meet Harry’s eyes. “After the first night? The second? The first time you came to the club? The night you saw Jack?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. None of those times. You remember the night I told you someone attacked me? About a week ago?”

Ian blinks, and that startles him into looking up at Harry. “A week?”

Harry nods. “She kidnapped me that night. The man I said attacked me was one of hers. It was her story, her idea. A way to cover up my absence.” He takes another step towards Ian. “I don’t want you to think our relationship was a lie. I don’t ever want you to think that. I fell in love with you well before Poppy sank her claws into me, and betraying you tore me up inside.”

“A week,” Ian says again. “This past week. When everything came crashing down.”

The anger in Ian’s eyes is starting to simmer again, and Harry tries to head it off. “I didn’t tell her to do that! I told her about the Vega, and I was keeping her updated on the new shipment, but that was it! I didn’t tell her to target anyone! I tried to stop her from doing that! I didn’t want anyone to get hurt!”

“A lot of good your bleeding heart did, hmm?” Ian snaps, his voice rising in volume again.

“She told me I wasn’t giving her enough information fast enough!” Harry’s voice rises to match, and it makes his head throb. “She said she was bored, that she didn’t want to keep dragging it out the way she had! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Ian, but I couldn’t stop her.”

“Did you even try?” Ian snarls, and it’s his turn to advance on Harry, dangerous and too close for comfort, forcing Harry to step back again in fear. “You could have come to me, you could have said something but you didn’t. You kept it to yourself, kept me in the dark, and everything I ever cared about suffered because of it!”

Harry swallows and forces himself to stop moving back. He lifts his chin. “So kill me.”

Ian halts in his tracks. “What?”

“I’m like Jack, aren’t I? I betrayed you. You killed him.” Ian flounders, his eyes widening, the anger still there but shock creeping in too. Harry looks him square in the face and says, “You could have let Poppy kill me and gotten away safely. But you didn’t.”

“Because it’s not my place to play god,” Ian growls, catching the rage again and fanning it. “It’s not my place to decide who lives and who dies.” He backs off, looking no less furious, but also more in control. “I’m not going to shoot you, Harry. You’ve explained. I’ve listened. I understand, and we’re even.” His eyes burn. “But I don’t want to see you again. Whatever this was? Real, pretend, I don’t care. It’s over.”

Harry nods he doesn’t even try to fight it. “I know,” he said. He gives a sad smile. “I knew I wasn’t going to be able to keep you. Even before Poppy, I knew. I’m too afraid. Always too afraid. And you’re…well, not fearless. But more fearless than me.”

Ian gives him a long, hard look, and for a split second, something flickers across his face that makes Harry think Ian might change his mind. Then the look is gone, and Ian nods once and moves past Harry towards the door.

“I didn’t tell you because she wouldn’t let me,” Harry calls after him. It makes Merlin pause and clench his fists, but he doesn’t turn around. “If she thought you knew, she would have released the photos to the police anyway. She had Charlie watching us. I couldn’t risk it.” He pauses, and adds, “I really thought I was doing the right thing.”

Ian hovers on the spot for a moment longer and then, without a word, pulls open the garden door and slams it shut behind him. It startles several of the butterflies into flight, spinning up into the air in alarm and touching down far away from the source of the noise. Harry sits down on the bench, puts his head in his hands, and allows himself to cry.

It only occurs to him a moment later that anyone might be watching when he hears a gentle tap on the window. He looks up, and Roxy has her hand pressed to the glass, Alistair and James hovering over her shoulders. She beckons him out, and he nods, wiping at his eyes in a way he hopes isn’t too obvious, and then stands up.

Ginger and Tequila are gone, presumably wherever Ian has stormed off to, and Olivia is lingering in a long hug with Roxy, who whispers something in her ear that makes Olivia nod before they separate. Roxy kisses her, and then Olivia disappears out of the restaurant with only a brief backwards look at Harry.

Harry approaches them cautiously. He can’t quite meet their eyes. “If you’re going to yell at me,” he braces himself, “I think it’s important to mention that I have a head injury and-“

Roxy drags him into a tight hug, wrapping her arms around his waist and squeezing until Harry thinks she might have cracked a rib. He hugs her back, ignoring the way his arm throbs in protest, until she releases him.

“Harry Hart, don’t you _ever_ think about stepping in front of a gun again, do you hear me?” she says, and her command is weakened slightly by the way her voice wavers.

Harry nods. “Believe me, I have no intentions of doing _anything_ like this ever again.” He hesitates, and then asks, “How is Olivia?”

“Little bit shaken,” Roxy admits, “but she’s tough. She’ll bounce back.”

“Are you going to get angry at me?”

“Yes,” Roxy says. “I’m going to get very, _very_ angry at you for being a stupid idiot who didn’t think he could come to his friends for help when he needed it, who instead decided to keep secrets that nearly got several people, including himself, killed.” She takes a deep breath. “But, in the interest of keeping you in a conscious state while I yell at you, it is going to wait until your brain can handle it again.”

Harry licks his lips nervously. “But-“

“Ian has known you for a month, Harry,” Roxy reads his mind and cuts him off. “He’s confused, and he’s hurt. But we’ve known you for years. We know you did what you thought was best. You don’t do things maliciously.”

“It doesn’t make it any better.”

“I think you’ll find it does,” James says. “Admittedly, I’m speaking as the person who has the least idea what’s going on, but your motives are usually pure.”

“You were backed into a corner,” Alistair adds. “In a scenario where there are no good answers and too many risks, someone is going to hurt. Did you honestly believe you were minimizing the number of people in danger with your choice?”

Harry nods. “I did.” He’s not so sure now, with all the heartache of the past two days, but at the time he really believed it.

“Then we forgive you,” Alistair says, like it’s just that simple. “The others might not. Or it might take a while for them to come around. But you’ll still have us.”

That’s more than Harry was expecting, and he smiles in spite of himself. Alistair smiles too. “Come on. We’re taking you home where we can keep an eye on you until that wound heals.”

“I do have another arm, you know.”

“I was actually referring to your brain injury,” Alistair says. “But whichever makes you feel the most unwell.”

It’s not until they’re in a cab on their way home – or to James and Alistair’s flat, anyway – that Harry asks, “What happened at the end? Do you know?”

Roxy is the one who speaks. “Olivia says that when the bullet meant for Ian missed, it hit Poppy instead. She fired accidentally, and it hit you. You lost your footing, and when you slammed your head on the deck you lost consciousness.”

“And Poppy? Is she…?”

“Dead,” Roxy confirms. “Gunshot wound sent her over the railing. If the bullet didn’t kill her, the fall definitely did. Olivia says Ian made Tequila wait at the docks until they pulled her out of the water, just to be sure.”

“He didn’t want her to die,” Harry murmurs. “She hurt him so badly, but he still didn’t want to kill her.”

“Well, he’s a good man,” Roxy says.

“He shot Jack in front of me with no qualms.” If there’s one thing Harry has learned from this, it’s that being a good man sometimes means hurting people to protect others. He hates that. He misses good and bad being black and white. Grey is the worst colour.

“You ran away from him when he did that,” Roxy points out. “Maybe some part of him didn’t want you to run away again.”

It’s a nice thought, but Harry doubts it. “He’s washing his hands of me. Whatever we had, it’s finished.”

Roxy gives him a sad smile. “I’m sorry. I know you loved him.”

“I really did,” Harry says. “I really do.”

James and Alistair’s flat always feels too small, and even by the end of the next day Harry wants to be anywhere but. He can’t write, not until his arm heals, and he can’t stand the pitying looks that everyone keeps giving him. He’s aware he’s moping, but he was also shot at and broken up with in the same day. He thinks he’s earned at least a week of moping.

Roxy stops by in the evening to tell them she’s going to New York. “Ian’s going back to America,” she explains. “Says he needs to get out of London for awhile. He’s leaving the clean-up to Tequila and Ginger while he goes to oversee things in the states. Olivia asked if I’d come with her.”

Harry manages to smile, even if it makes the ache in his chest feel all the larger. “I’m glad. And New York will be very lucky to have you.”

She kisses his cheek and hands him a sheaf of papers. “I stopped by your flat. I know you can’t write just yet, but I thought maybe you could convince Uncle Alistair or James to write while you dictated. There’s quite a lot of it. Is it almost done?”

Harry takes the pages from her. “Nearly. The ending’s all planned out. Just needs to be written.”

“Well, then, get to it.” Roxy smiles. “It’s been a long while since I’ve seen you inspired enough to finish a novel.”

It’s been a long while since Harry had anything inspiring enough to motivate him. He smiles again, and it’s a little less real. “Go. I’m sure you have plenty of packing to do.”

“I’ll stop by before I leave,” she promises. “To say goodbye.”

Harry waits until she’s gone to let his smile drop. He looks down at the pages in his hand and sighs. His story is over. Hamish and Eliza’s isn’t, not quite.

He sits down and, with a determination he doesn’t quite feel, picks up a pen in his left hand. He licks the tip - it’s still disgusting, and Harry again reminds himself to break the bad habit - and puts it to the paper. The letters are awful and shaky, but that doesn’t matter.

There’s still a few chapters left to write.


	28. Epilogue

“Baby, I love you, but please keep whatever that is away from the drinks.”

Harry doesn’t know which of her many prototypes Ginger is threatening Tequila with, but given that she’s been working on a few different drugs to nullify the effects of alcohol on the body, Harry isn’t surprised that her fiancé is trying to keep her away from the bar. Ginger is a woman of many talents, and subterfuge is only one of them. She’d be an award-winning scientist if anyone would let her near a proper lab. As it is, she makes do, and she’s utterly brilliant at it.

Their voices drift in through the open door of the dressing room, where Harry is skimming through the editor’s comments on his novel. So far he’s only gotten minor edits, nothing too drastic. He’s never sure if it’s because the work is good or because his editor just doesn’t care, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

A hand reaches past him for a tube of lipstick, and Harry bats it away. “Not that one. It doesn’t go with your skin tone.” He nudges a different tube towards Eggsy. “Try that one.”

“Thanks.” She picks it up and leans closer to the mirror, probably closer than necessary, but then, she doesn’t have the same sort of guiding hand Harry did when learning this. Still, she manages two neat swoops, painting inside the lines more or less. She grins at him and asks, “What d’you think?”

“I think you look very nice,” Harry tells her. Eggsy can wing her eyeliner better than Harry can, even though Harry’s had more practice, and he’s only a little bit bitter about it.

The pronoun shift is new, less than a month old, and Eggsy is very adamant about it. “Only when it’s just us, yeah?” had been her exact words, although ‘just us’ incorporates a half a dozen people. She’s still growing into this, figuring out how to be a woman in a way that makes her more comfortable, but still keeps her safe. Harry figures their little family is as safe a place to explore that as anywhere else. Safer, probably.

Ginger pops her head into the dressing room. “Tequila’s being no fun.” The diamond ring sparkles on her finger where her hand is curled around the doorframe. “Come out and entertain me.” She holds out her hands beseechingly.

Eggsy takes one and Harry takes the other. It took a month for Harry to be accepted back into the fold, but Ginger and Tequila have forgiven him.

“I understand doing desperate things to keep people safe,” Ginger told him. “And sometimes those things aren’t the best, and sometimes they hurt people anyway. But you tried. That counts for a lot.” Tequila hadn’t so much expressed forgiveness as gone from being distant one day to overly affectionate the next, as if nothing had ever happened.

Ginger drags Eggsy and Harry into the club. Tequila is behind the bar, as expected, and he watches them affectionately as Ginger puts the radio on and starts to dance. She twirls Eggsy around, the younger woman’s skirt flying as she laughs and stumbles, still not quite used to her heels. Ginger spins Eggsy over to the side so she can grab onto a table for support and then releases her, reaching out for Harry instead and pulling him into tango position.

She can do both parts, Harry has learned. Her and Tequila both. But no matter which one of them he dances with - and they are pretty much his only dance partners, save for Eggsy once or twice - he always follows. Those are the steps he knows, the ones Ian taught him, and he doesn’t really want to learn how to lead.

It’s been eight months, two weeks, and four days since Ian left for America. Harry hasn’t heard from him since. He wonders why it still affects him as much as it does. He only knew Ian for a month.

And yet.

Ginger dips him abruptly, surprisingly skilled at it considering she is much shorter and weighs much less than him (although not too surprising, because he’s seen her do it to Tequila too, who is equally tall and even bulkier than Harry), and it startles him out of his reverie. “You’re not going get all mopey on us again, are you?” she asks, pulling him upright.

“Of course not,” Harry promises her. “No more moping.”

He misses Ian sometimes, but Ian isn’t his whole life, either. He has James and Alistair. He has Eggsy and Tequila and Ginger. He has occasional overseas phone calls from Roxy, and he has Amelia. And he has Tristan and the butterfly garden, the old man thrilled for the help of someone who actually is well-versed in the subject to aid him in caring for the creatures. He has his next book, ready to be touched up and sent back to the editor so it can be sent on to the publisher. That’s more than enough for him.

Ginger shares a look with Tequila over Harry’s shoulder, and then she lets go of him, turning off the radio.

“What?” Harry asks.

“Nothing,” Ginger says. “I just need to head out for an errand.”

“What sort of errand?” Harry asks, because they wouldn’t be this shifty about it if it weren’t something important. Or rather, Tequila is being shifty. Ginger has an excellent poker face, but the bartender can’t meet Harry’s eyes.

Ginger hesitates, and then says, “I’m going to the docks.”

“I thought you just sent a shipment out last week?” Harry’s not involved, strictly speaking, but he watches the comings and goings. Even fills in occasionally when there’s work to be done. Ian doesn’t have to know.

“It’s not about something we’re sending out.”

Eggsy rolls her eyes. “Wow, you’re thick, Harry. Guess who’s coming back?”

Tequila and Ginger whip around to stare at her, and Harry blinks in shock. “What?” she says. “It ain’t like you was being subtle about it. Harry gets to see everything you lot do, even the illegal shit, so what’s so important about the docks that he can’t know about?” She looks smug as she deduces, “Merlin’s coming back, ain’t he?”

“His ship is scheduled to dock sometime this afternoon,” Ginger admits.

Harry’s heart skips a beat, and he firmly tells it to calm down. “How long have you known?”

“Since he left port two weeks ago,” Ginger says. “He said he wanted to be back in time for the wedding. Thought he’d been in New York long enough.”

“Are Olivia and Roxy coming too?”

She nods. Harry cracks a smile. “It’ll be good to see them again. I miss Roxy.” He hesitates, “Can I come with you?”

“Not sure that’s a good idea,” Tequila cautions. “Merlin-“

“I’m not going for him,” Harry says. “And I’m not going to just disappear because he’s back. Unless…” He suddenly doubts himself.

Tequila immediately reassures, “We still want you around, Harry. It’s just…it’ll be different with Merlin here. With…everything.”

“I promise I’ll respect his space,” Harry tells him. “I just want to see Roxy, and perhaps say hello to Olivia.” Roxy says Olivia has forgiven him, but he hasn’t actually spoken to her, so he’s not sure.

“Alright,” Ginger relents. “Come on, though. Reports indicate they should be getting in in the next hour or so.” She grins at Eggsy. “Keep my fiancé company, sweetheart?”

“With pleasure,” Eggsy winks, and then grins over at Tequila, who smirks back.

Harry hasn’t been back to the docks since that last day with Poppy. It looks…well, it looks the same as ever. Not especially threatening, but not safe either. Ginger gets a couple of catcalls and some…other words thrown her way, but Harry stays close to her, and anyway, it’s not like she needs his protection.

The passenger ship is already docked, but the passengers aren’t allowed to disembark yet. There’s a crowd of family members waiting, and Harry and Ginger join them.

It’s hard to miss it when Ian steps off. He’s over six feet, after all, and he’s wearing a pageboy cap, presumably to keep his head from burning under the sun. Roxy and Olivia skip ahead of him, spotting them in the crowd and barrelling towards Harry and Ginger. Roxy all but tackles him, and he barely manages to catch her, hugging her tightly.

“Did you miss me?” she asks eagerly.

“Only every day you were gone, my dear,” Harry tells her. “Do Alistair and James know you’re home?”

She shakes her head. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“A very welcome one, I should think.”

Olivia is done hugging Ginger, and she smiles warmly at Harry. She’s wearing a monocle, a fashion trend Harry has started noticing lately. It looks good on her. “Been a long time, Mr. Hart.”

“Olivia, I really hope you still consider us on first name basis,” Harry says, hoping he won’t regret the playfulness.

He doesn’t; she beams widely at him and gives him a quick hug, pulling away just as Ian joins them. He kisses Ginger on the cheek, and then regards Harry carefully.

Ginger nudges him towards the city. “Let’s go. Tequila was hoping to get a proper hello before the club opened. Assuming, of course, he isn’t too busy with Eggsy to notice we’re gone.” There’s a little quirk to her lips and a hint in her tone as she says it that makes Harry laugh. He’s aware that whatever is going on between the engaged couple and Eggsy is perhaps less than platonic, although he doesn’t know the exact situation.

The cab ride is loud, Roxy and Olivia plying Ginger with questions about the upcoming wedding, and Ginger asking about what she’s missing in America. Ian and Harry are both silent. He knows, not because he sees but because he can feel it, that they’re doing the thing where they only look when the other is looking away. He can’t quite manage to make himself meet Ian’s gaze.

Tequila and Eggsy are not in fact shagging over the bar when they get back, although they are definitely flirting over it, but it stops when they catch sight of the group. Harry slips into the dressing room.

He really only intends to collect his manuscript and leave, but his path is blocked. He stops and backs up, keeping his eyes on Ian’s shoes.

“Harry, look at me please,” Ian says softly, and Harry slowly lifts his chin to meet Ian’s gaze. It’s gentler than he expected.

“I was just leaving,” Harry tells him, but the words sort of stick in his throat.

Ian smiles. “Don’t leave on my account.” He hesitates, “I wanted to apologize.”

Harry frowns. “I beg your pardon?”

“I…thought a lot about how we left things, and I realized I might have been a little bit unfair to you.” Ian sighs. “Olivia might have talked some sense into me. I was angry, and that clouded my judgement.”

“You had every right to be angry. What I did-“

“Was understandable under the circumstances. It wasn’t good. I’m not sure it was right. But I can see why you did it, and I can accept that. I’d like to move past it, if that’s alright with you.”

There’s a white butterfly pin on his breast pocket, and Harry eyes it. Ian notices and flushes. “I might have read a book or two about butterflies while I was away.” His smile is shy. “What do you think, Harry? Think we could try again? Start over?”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t want to start over. I want to pick up where we left off.”

“And where is that?” Ian asks cautiously.

“I did something horrible to you, and you forgave me. Now, we try to move past it.”

“I’d like that.”

“So would I.” Harry allows himself to smile at Ian, and the hole in his heart that he’s been ignoring for eight months, two weeks, and five days closes just a little.

Ian reaches out to take his hand and touches the manuscript instead. He looks down between them, and then back up at Harry. “Is this the one about us?”

Harry nods. Ian doesn’t ask to see it, but Harry hands it to him anyway. Ian flips to the last few pages and skims it, his brow furrowing. “Seems awfully sad. Poor Eliza, having a baby on her own. Hamish really doesn’t know?”

Harry might have suffered because his secret was discovered, but Eliza suffers because hers was not. “It felt like the right ending,” he says quietly.

“Shame,” Ian says. “I always hated it when love stories ended unhappily.”

“Well,” Harry admits, unable to help smiling shyly at Ian, “I was thinking about writing an epilogue.”

“Epilogues are good.”

“Epilogues are wonderful,” Harry agrees. He bites his lip and then asks, “How long are you here for this time?”

“Not sure yet,” Ian tells him. He grins, a bit reserved, like he wants to make a joke but he’s not sure he’s allowed. “Long enough for you to collect on our bet, anyway.”

“Bet?” Harry asks. He casts back, trying to remember.

“Poppy Adams,” Ian says. “Her real name. I promised you anything.”

Anything is a dangerous word for them. Harry lets it hang in the air, turning over between them. He’s not going to ask anything of Ian. Not now.

 Eventually, Ian accepts Harry’s non-answer and says slowly, “I was thinking about extending my stay a bit longer than usual. Definitely a bit too long to stay in a hotel.”

Harry blinks. Ian looks uncertain, but hopeful. “I was thinking that maybe finding a slightly more permanent address was in order. Olivia was going to take me out to look at flats tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Harry thinks he understands what Ian’s trying to say, but if he’s wrong…

“And I thought, you know, with the price of London real estate, that I might be in the market for a flatmate. If the right person was interested.”

Harry lets the silence stretch for a beat too long, and Ian says quickly, “You don’t have to, I just thought maybe-“

“We’re not sleeping in the same room,” Harry interrupts him. “I want to prove to you I’m trustworthy again.”

“But you’ll do it?”

Harry nods. “If you’ll have me.”

They’re caught like that, kissing in the middle of the dressing room, Harry’s arms thrown around Ian’s neck and Ian’s hands wrapped around his waist, and Harry can’t bring himself to mind the wolf-whistles Eggsy and Tequila throw their way.

He’s too busy enjoying the moment.

[](https://i.imgur.com/VvJtElr.jpg)


End file.
